The Broken Tango
by ToryTigress92
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is one side of a coin, but what will happen when he meets the other? What happens when he discovers his greatest strength and his greatest weakness? He may just discover he is not as heartless as he thinks.
1. A Meeting By Murder

The Broken Tango

* * *

John looked down on all the unpaid bills on the hall table with a sigh, and a despairing grimace. The sound of violin music filtered in from the living room, as he limped in.

Sherlock Holmes stood by the window, gazing dreamily out at the busy street below, just frosting over with ice, his violin in hand as he played a mournful tune. John went to roll his eyes, knowing that Sherlock was in one of his 'bored' phases.

John wandered to one of the comfortable armchairs by the fire, and sank into it. After a minute more of sad strings, he shifted and spoke.

"Sherlock,"

No answer.

"Sherlock!" John tried again, a little louder but Sherlock's eyes didn't even flicker. The light from the window created a halo around his dark form, in tight-fitting trousers and shirt, so he looked like the Prince of Darkness personified. Feeling irritation rise, if a slightly fond irritation, John snapped. "SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stopped playing, laying his bow down with an impatient sigh.

"John, you really shouldn't bellow so loudly. All that nonsense on the drill field doesn't quite apply here," he muttered, before finally turning to face his flatmate. What is it?"

By way of explanation, John held up the unpaid bills pointedly, at which Sherlock's quick thinking brain immediately surmised the reason.

"Ahh, I see. Your constant concern for the bills, our lack of income, notwithstanding your occupation as a locum, and now the rather rude interruption of my violin practice-" he began, but John spoke across him.

"Hark who's talking!" he snorted, remembering countless dates with Sarah, which Sherlock had interrupted either in person, or by text. Sherlock continued like he hadn't spoken.

"…all point to your supposition that taking on another flatmate would ease our financial troubles. Correct?" he tilted his head to the side with one of his sarcastic smirks, a stray curl flopping into his eyes. John rolled his eyes.

"It would help," he muttered. "We have that spare room, after all. It would also help if you actually took some of these consulting jobs on. I mean that is what you are, isn't it? Consulting detective?"

"Not for a bunch of corporate vultures thank you. They're no fun," Sherlock retorted with a snort, turning back to his violin. "Fine, find another flatmate if it'll stop you whining."

"I'm not whining," John muttered under his breath, standing and walking out to the kitchenette.

"Sure you're not," Sherlock replied smugly, picking up his bow and randomly picking a piece to play, as he mused on the statistical likelihood that Lestrade might call him with another murder.

* * *

_Two Days Later…_

"So judging from the band of lighter skin on your left ring finger, you were married but are not now. The skin is slightly raw, so the ring was forcefully removed. Your clothes are good quality, Bond Street, but you're clearly down on your luck to be coming to us, otherwise you would be able to afford somewhere else. You have a slight tan, so travelled but not in the last six weeks, so your tan has faded. Investment banker, returned from a disastrous interlude with a lover in the Maldives, but your wife found out and threw you out. You then lost rather a lot of money for your bank, which by the pen in your left jacket pocket, I can surmise it was Barclays Bank, and was fired. Did I miss anything?" Sherlock asked cheerily, as the man sitting opposite them gaped in indignation and pure shock.

"H-how did you know-?" he began to splutter, as John wanted to hide his head in his hands. This was the third one in two days.

"About the Maldives? Simple, the luggage tag is still on your bag. As for the event of your firing from your job, it is very simple. As an investment banker, as evidenced by your clothes and the pen in your jacket pocket, you should be able to afford somewhere better, but are somewhat down on funds at the moment due to your divorce and the loss of your job, something which could only come around from two things. Staff redundancies due to cuts, unlikely considering the profits declared recently, or if you made such a mistake as to lose several million pounds on an idiotic venture. Considering your misstep with your wife and lover, the latter seemed more likely," Sherlock concluded, and John couldn't help but be impressed, again.

Not that it helped their situation.

Ten minutes later John closed the door on a slightly irate, former investment banker divorcee.

Shaking his head, he wandered back into the front room where Sherlock was busy plucking at his violin _again_.

"What?" he growled, at which John jumped before bristling himself.

"What what?" he retorted, glaring at the taller man, now folded into an armchair nonchalantly. Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes.

"I'm waiting for the tirade, which from your stance and the sigh you gave on the doorstep, is no doubt coming my way," he replied curtly.

"Do you have to insult and scare off every potential flatshare? First with that uni student-"

"On drugs and gay, but not out of the closet," Sherlock interjected.

"-Then with the taxi driver who needed a flat-" John continued irately.

Sherlock shuddered. "Can't look at cabbies the same way since that case. Anyway, I made most of that stuff up. Mostly."

"-and now with this one. Can't you find it in yourself to hold off on the…deductions until we get a flatmate?" John asked angrily. Sherlock rolled his eyes just as his Blackberry pinged.

"No. They're going to have live with me," he muttered, sliding it out and flicking it open. A moment later a boyish smile dawned on his face.

To anyone but John, it would have looked ghoulish on his austere features.

"Come on. We have been summoned," Sherlock bounced from his chair, and almost running to the door like an eager little child. John followed with a sigh.

* * *

Sherlock bounced along the drafty corridor filled with DIs and uniformed police, passing Lestrade without a word, but the older man stopped to incline his head warmly to John.

"What have we got?" John asked as the two walked side by side after Sherlock, who stopped to crucify a glaring Anderson with a cheery "Anderson, seeing you always reminds me how much of an idiot you are."

"Apparent suicide. A young woman in her late twenties, hung herself. Suicide is the obvious assumption," Lestrade explained, but Sherlock snorted derisively.

"I would have thought you'd learnt by now, never go with the obvious. Or have you been spending too much time around Anderson again?"

John rolled his eyes, before walking into the crime scene.

Both John and Sherlock stopped dead, at the sight of the young woman in black biker leathers, loose brunette hair streaming down her back, prowling around the body with a feline grace.

Lestrade saw their surprise with amusement, as he stepped forward.

"Sherlock, John allow me to introduce my niece. Irene Adler," he waved his hand, embracing the young woman with a smile, as Sherlock met the deep grey eyes of the beauty poaching _his_ crime scene.

"Sherlock Holmes. We meet at last," she breathed, when her uncle released her, and her gaze was both strong-willed and defiant. John glanced between the two, and inwardly gulped.

There were so many sparks in the air, there could have been fireworks.


	2. Tactless

The Broken Tango

Chapter 2

* * *

Irene Adler's keen eyes looked over the two men standing beside her uncle, as she snapped off the latex gloves protecting her fingers.

The shorter of the two, John Watson, met her eye with a friendly one, intelligent and warm. He was blonde, and stood proudly if not a little stiffly, with a stiffness in the way he used his left arm which suggested an injury to the shoulder. Plus his skin was tanned but not above the wrists.

She deduced he was ex-military, perhaps sent home because of a bullet wound? And had to have come from either Afghanistan or Iraq.

As John stretched his hand out to shake hers, she asked, "Iraq or Afghanistan?"

"I'm sorry, what?" he spluttered.

"I can see from the way you hold yourself that you're ex-military. There's a stiffness in your left arm which would indicate an injury to your shoulder, possibly a gunshot wound. Your skin is tanned, but not below the wrists, which would also tell me that you weren't sunbathing, you were working. So tan, gunshot wound, military bearing must mean one thing: Iraq or Afghanistan?" she explained, with one quirked eyebrow. John glanced from her to Sherlock, and back again while Lestrade fought to contain his laughter.

"You don't have a secret twin sister, do you Sherlock?" he finally asked, the stupefied expression on his face worthy of a photo. Irene clapped her hands together.

"If only I had a camera, the look on your face," she sighed, before turning back to the body. Apart from her initial greeting, she completely ignored Sherlock Holmes.

"So back to business. What can you tell me about the victim?" Lestrade asked, but just as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, Irene had already beaten him to it.

"This crime scene was made to look like a suicide, however there are several key points to the contrary. First, the stool which was used has been kicked across the floor. From her position atop it, the victim would have had no way of kicking it with such force as to shove it over the other side of the room. If you look on the floor, there are striations in the wood, where the stool was shoved away. Usually, if there was a suicide the victim would just step off of it. If we follow this theory, more anomalies appear. First there are traces of human skin on the rope knot, however look at the woman's hands," at this Irene held up the corpse's hand, showing the smooth skin. "Too smooth for excess skin to just peel away like this, so we can surmise her attacker was relatively young, seeing as the majority of people who suffer from eczema are adolescent, but what's more is the bruising along her back, and arms, seen just above her clothing. All would have had to have been administered by someone else, due to their positions, and judging by their colour and severity, they are only a few hours old. The victim died at 3:00 this afternoon. Uncle, we need forensics up here to dust for fingerprints and to find, if possible the weapon used to cause these injuries. This attack was frenzied, and as such the murderer was unlikely to have thrown the weapon away with care or have taken it very far," Irene finished her assessment, perfectly aware of the uncomfortable silence in the room, but uncaring as she focussed her eyes on the still hanging corpse.

* * *

Suddenly muffled clapping filled the air, and Lestrade, Irene and John all turned to see Sherlock applauding her with a derisive look on his face.

John could have sworn there was an impressed look somewhere there too.

"Very well done, Miss Adler, for an amateur," he drawled. "But perhaps now the obvious is out of the way, you'll let the grown-ups take it from here?"

"I hardly think so, Mr Holmes," Irene replied sweetly, but John could hear the sarcasm in her saccharine tones. "If anything I am more qualified to make these observations than even you are."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, as he regarded the young woman with newfound caution. "Oxford or Cambridge?" he asked abruptly, as Lestrade stared at him, but Irene merely looked at him condescendingly.

"Well done, Mr Holmes. The Oxbridge accent does rather give it away. Incidentally it was Oxford," she murmured. "Come on then, astound me with my life story."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. At last, a sparring partner with an ounce of wit and intelligence. "So Oxford education, I'm guessing either forensics or criminology, considering your insightful knowledge. You've spent time in the military, hence your recognition of John's own bearing, but you also stand with a grace which reflect some training in dance. Incidentally, you are neither Lestrade's biological niece, nor his sister's biological daughter as I have met both her and her husband, and you bear no physical resemblance. So you're adopted, possibly a teenage mother who didn't want you and gave you up at birth. As to your age, I am guessing twenty-three, although how…" he trailed off for a minute, missing the stricken look in Irene's eyes at the mention of her parentage, Lestrade's anger and John's concern. "Got it! You were a child prodigy, weren't you? Got into university at sixteen, graduated at eighteen, went into the military and left recently, however you saw no active service, at least not anywhere like John, so I am guessing RAF or Navy, rather than Army. How did I do?" he finished, with a boyish smile. Irene glared at him, stepping close.

Sherlock looked into her eyes, and saw them shimmering with tears, afire with anger before they darkened. It was like shutters coming down, armour keeping him out of her head. To his surprise, he was visited with a strong urge to tear that armour away, so he could bask in the mind of someone nearly as brilliant as he.

"You are mostly right. I was a child prodigy. I studied Astrophysics for one year at Oxford before switching to Criminology and Forensic Science. I was fast-tracked and graduated at the age of nineteen. I joined the RAF and trained as a fighter pilot, however several issues with discipline and what were deemed reckless acts saw me dishonourably discharged. And you're right, I am adopted," Irene breathed harshly, before turning away from the consulting detective.

"Your mother?" he asked, pressing her so he could prove he was right. Prove he was superior.

"Holmes, enough!" Lestrade snapped, as John watched in silence.

"That is none of your business," Irene muttered, and John saw the telltale signs of her fists clenching. Sherlock was pushing her too fast.

"Sherlock, maybe you should-" he began, but as always his friend ignored him.

"A desire to discard a painful topic only strengthens my hypothesis that you were given up at bi-ARGH!" his hypothesis was cut off by Irene's fist, punching him in the jaw. She was breathing harshly, looking down at the detective as he straightened slowly, meeting her watery eyes.

"My mother didn't give me up. She died," Irene snarled, before collecting herself and walking out the room. An awkward silence fell, only compounded by the corpse swinging like a pendulum in the centre, and the groans of Sherlock as he rotated his jaw experimentally.

"Definitely military, with a right hook like that," he muttered to himself. John shook his head, and wandered outside to find Irene while Lestrade stepped forward with a threatening look on his face.

"That was tactless, Holmes. You have no idea what that girl has been through in her life," he all but snarled in the consulting detective's face. Sherlock Holmes stared back at him, with his piercing eyes, trying to see what he had missed.

"So tell me," he murmured. Lestrade hesitated, as Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "We both know you're going to tell me anyway, at some point."

"Fine," Lestrade muttered through gritted teeth. He stepped away, to the other side of the room as a team of hazmat suit-clad assistants came to take the body down and away. "Her birth parents were killed when she was six, and she was alone. No other family to speak of, so she was put up for adoption. My sister and her husband quickly found out they could not have kids so they adopted her."

"I'm guessing that's not the whole story," Sherlock mused cautiously, his brain now buzzing. He let the body go without question, he really had nothing further to add. Miss Adler had done it quite sufficiently, to his disgust.

"No. The Adlers are quite a moneyed lot. Well-connected and intellectual, and Irene was expected to go along with it. She was frighteningly clever, but she ditched her astrophysics degree, her parents' choice, in favour of criminology and forensics. She joined the RAF against their will too, and they haven't spoken in years. She's here looking for a flat, and I invited her to meet me here. She didn't deserve what you dealt her just because she solved the case before you, Sherlock," Lestrade finished, his voice a little rough. Without another word, he left the room, leaving Sherlock to dwell on all he had just learned.

It certainly seemed Miss Irene Adler had a lot of disregard for authority, as well as a voracious intelligence and a fiery temper. He also sensed there was a lot of pain there, from her parents' premature death, possibly contributing to her refusal to allow her adopted parents to dictate her life.

She was an intriguing character.

Sherlock's lips quirked, as he turned and swept from the room.


	3. An Offer She Can't Refuse

The Broken Tango

Chapter 3

**I would like to stress that this characterisation of Irene is my own. I haven't read the books (probably should now I'm addicted to Sherlock) and so only know the bare minimum, and the character portrayed by Rachel McAdams in the film version. Just warning you, if she turns a little different, than how she is in canon.**

* * *

Irene breathed in deeply as the cool evening air hit her forehead, soothing her temper. She stepped out of the way of the working police officers, leaning against a brick wall. She exhaled, letting go of all her pain and anger at one Sherlock Holmes.

How could he have known, really?

The man was fiendishly clever, but he was not omniscient. He was, at the end of the day, a man.

With a shudder, she remembered the piercing glance with which he'd graced her when their eyes first met, that dark, curly hair flopping artfully into an austere face. He was slender, taller than her, and his hands were the elegant, tapered ones of an artist.

But he was rude, arrogant, conceited and entirely tactless.

"Irene," John appeared in front of her, and she smiled wanly. She had nothing against him. "Look, I just wanted to apologise for Sherlock. He's just…"

Watching him struggle for words, Irene smirked. "Sherlock?" she suggested by way of explanation, and John chuckled.

"Anyway, your uncle said you were looking for a flat. I-well I mean _**we've **_got a spare room we're looking to fill, you know share the flat and all that. Interested?" he asked, trying not to look too hopeful.

Irene considered him, thinking fast. She was indeed looking for a flat, and the notion of sharing with two others was attractive, but…

She would be sharing with Sherlock.

But then again her old-fashioned adoptive parents would flip at the news she was sharing a flat with two men.

"Yes, I'm interested," she murmured, at which a huge grin split John's face.

"Brilliant. Although, after your performance in there, I am now going to be living with the equivalent of two Sherlock Holmes," John groaned jokingly, and Irene laughed.

"You're going to need therapy," she muttered. She knew full well most people found her insufferable, but she had always borne that. It was the price of being clever.

"Just got out of it, actually," John muttered, and Irene laughed.

"Let me guess, psychosomatic limp in your right leg?" she murmured in question, and John gaped at her. She laughed, and John thought she had a very warm laugh.

"Seriously, you are scary. Anyway, you want a lift home?" he asked, gesturing towards the cabs waiting for their customers a short walk away. She shook her head.

"No. I have my own ride," she gestured to a shining black motorbike, gleaming like a panther in the setting sun. The little boy in John started drooling.

"Wow. That's-that's…." he trailed off as she led him to it, patting its back wheel affectionately.

"I bought it with the last of my final pay check. She's my baby," she breathed, appreciation in her eyes, as she raised her eyes to Watson. And saw the dark figure standing behind him, as their eyes met and another little shiver rippled down her back.

* * *

Sherlock stood in the shadows, watching Watson interact with the young woman, crooning over that ridiculous machine. He readjusted his scarf as he watched Irene move around, with the odd mixture of preciseness and grace which denoted her joint dance and military background. She was beautiful, in an odd way. She was not conventionally beautiful in this age of plastic surgery and dyed hair. Her body had little to no fat on it, being mostly muscle, and she was not overtly curvaceous. Her long brunette hair softened a stark face, as pale as his own, but the features were even and classical. Her grey eyes were twin mirrors into her soul.

Sherlock caught himself. Why was he thinking of her, in the physical sense? Why?

It was not quite true when he had told John girlfriends were not his area. Women were, just not the concept of girlfriends.

He had had his fair share of interludes over the years, women like Molly that were bowled over by his intelligence and domineering ways but ultimately were little more than short flings.

Love, and emotions like it, were weaknesses to be exploited. He had done it before, and he would not allow himself to become that weak. He was above it.

All he felt was a slight chemical reaction, a biological need elicited by her grating of his male pride, something Sherlock could not deny he possessed.

That was all.

It would have to be all, would have to be enough to get him through the coming days since he'd overheard John's offer to Irene, and her acceptance. Seeing the look of devious enjoyment on her face, he surmised she was anticipating her adoptive parents' reactions to her moving in with two single men.

If he was going to be living with her, these urges would have to be repressed.

Not to worry. Sherlock's mind was like a computer hard drive, and if something was not necessary, it was deleted.

He did it now, deleted that irksome little urge, and strode towards the two.

* * *

Not noticing him, Irene stepped into him, and ended up gripping his forearms while he gripped her waist with his hands.

He cursed under his breath. That urge was back from the recycle bin.

"Careful, Irene. Wouldn't want our new flatmate taking a tumble," he murmured smoothly, absolutely forbidding his eyes to wander down to her full lips. He cursed his less than witty retort, but by the fire springing up in her eyes, he guessed she didn't really care either way.

"Don't patronise me," she breathed, stepping back determinedly. But he saw the flush in her skin, saw the raised blood under her skin which indicated heightened blood pressure.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he replied coolly, as she sent him a gaze which could have scorched ice, before taking her helmet out of a saddlebag attached to her motorcycle.

"What's the address?" she asked John, now pretending to ignore him utterly. But she wasn't, he could tell.

"221B, Baker Street," Sherlock replied shortly, before John could open his mouth, and Irene shot him a glare.

"I'll see you there," she muttered, sliding her helmet down over her loose hair, and throwing one slender, leather-clad leg over the bike's saddle.

"What about your stuff?" John finally managed to get a word in, as Irene started the bike. The sound of the engine purring filled the road, blocking out the sirens and the scurrying of police officers.

Irene patted her rucksack, and the detachable saddlebag hanging down by her legs. "I have everything I need in here. See you at home,"

And with that she wheeled the bike, and sped off into the distance, leaving a dark-haired man staring after her.

* * *

John glanced at his colleague, flatmate and friend, and noticed the distracted look in his eyes, as he gazed after Irene.

A teasing smile spread across his face, as a laughter-inducing thought occurred to him.

"You like her, don't you?" he wheedled, hiding his now cold hands in his pockets.

Sherlock's head snapped around with the speed of a cat which had scented its prey, as the shutters in his eyes came down, keeping John out.

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped, starting to walk towards the main road. John shook his head, and then followed.


	4. The Start Of A Beautiful Relationship

The Broken Tango

Chapter 4

* * *

Irene's motorcycle was waiting for them when they reached home, the detachable saddlebag now gone, and a wheel clamp ensuring no-one was about to steal it.

Sherlock eyed it derisively for a moment, before noticing something very interesting on the inside tread of her back wheel. A tracking device.

"Clever girl," he noted, fingers tracing the tiny wire leading to the clamp holding the wheel in place. "Very clever girl indeed."

"You going to enthuse over Irene's cleverness all night or are you going to come in before you freeze?" John asked, while paying the cab driver. Sherlock straightened, and swept inside without another word, as John sighed.

"This is going to be the start of a beautiful relationship, I just know it," he muttered through gritted teeth, as he closed the door behind him.

* * *

Upstairs, they could hear Mrs Hudson's chatter, and the slightly deeper, stronger voice of Irene as they talked. To Sherlock's surprise, the girl actually responded to all the old woman's drivel.

Technically he supposed he shouldn't be calling her a girl. She was over the voting age, an obviously worldly and intelligent woman, and certainly physically mature as his body was insistent on telling him. She was very much a woman, but still a _young_ woman at that. He had seen a vulnerability in her which denoted her youth.

It was a vulnerability he'd long dispensed with.

As he trudged up the stairs, gloomily contemplating having to live with this woman and his infernal mental obsession with her, he smelt the rising notes of Earl Grey tea.

Walking into his homely flat, the warmth and familiar aroma washed over him like a hot bath. A fire was lit in the grate, and he collapsed into his chair and immediately picked up his violin.

* * *

In the kitchen, John went to join Mrs Hudson and Irene, who were sat with full mugs of steaming tea.

"Any tea?" John asked hopefully, as Mrs Hudson heaved a long-suffering sigh and headed towards the kettle. John sat down heavily, yawning before gratefully accepting the mug his landlady offered him.

"Irene was just telling me about her dance training. I used to dance, me and my old Bill back in the day, at Blackpool you know…" Mrs Hudson started on one of her tangents again, as a slightly strained smile appeared on John's face. Irene noticed it with a smile of her own.

"You danced?" John asked her, letting Mrs Hudson talk on uninterrupted. "What kind?"

"Everything," Irene replied. "I did what I wanted to do."

"…but that was before my old hip started, but oh the waltzes that year!" Mrs Hudson was still happily reminiscing.

"Settled in yet?" John asked warmly, liking Irene more and more. She was like a female Sherlock, but partially less arrogant and just more human.

"Just about. It's not like I had crates of stuff to unpack," she shrugged, tracing her finger around the rim of her mug. "You can tell it's a bachelor pad, though."

"Oh?" John asked curiously, but amused too. It wasn't an insult.

"There's mess everywhere, except in your room. Sorry, I hope you don't mind, I had a look around while Mrs Hudson made the tea," Irene trailed off, frowning, but John waved it aside. Lack of privacy in this house was a given with Sherlock Holmes. "Anyway," she continued, "it also stinks. No offence."

"None taken," John laughed, glancing towards Sherlock but he'd gone into one of his reveries again.

"It's kind of reassuring in a way. Reminds me of when I was in the RAF, in pilot training. The majority of the flight was male, and us girls would always sneak in to play cards and drink with the boys. This place feels…like that," she ended awkwardly, which John could instantly understand. He'd been in the Army after all.

"You hungry?" he asked, noticing her suddenly wistful eyes. She was just as changeable as Sherlock, in a way as moody, but they weren't bad moods. Her eyes were just so expressive that you could see every quicksilver change of emotion in them.

"Starving," she replied, still surprised Mrs Hudson was chattering away to herself in the background. She was a sweet old lady, a bit doddery but harmless. Like a barmy old auntie.

"I'll order in Chinese. Anything you don't like?" John asked, standing to grab the phone. Irene shrugged.

"Nope. I'll eat anything, as long as its edible," she smiled freely now, and John smiled back.

"Another trick we learn in the forces, eh? He is so fussy," he jerked his head to the still motionless Sherlock, now thoughtfully plucking the strings of his violin.

Irene poured another mug, determined just to be civil to the man now she was living here with, and carried it in.

* * *

Sherlock's gaze was firmly fixed on the table beside him, fingers thoughtlessly plucking at the strings of his violin, mind firmly fixed on the mysterious Moriarty.

In all truthfulness, it was the only subject which took his mind off Irene.

Who was he? Was he an organisation, or one person? When would he show himself?

Still musing to himself, he had no idea Irene was standing in front of him until a slender hand placed a steaming mug of pure heaven in front of him.

Unthinkingly, Sherlock spoke aloud as his eyes jerked up to hers. "Moriarty."

"What?" Irene blinked in surprise, but Sherlock's narrowed as he glimpsed shock, fear and unease in her expressive eyes. They were entirely too revealing, especially to him.

He would keep an eye on them in future, especially seeing her susceptibility to the name of Moriarty.

"Sorry, just musing aloud. Do you know the name?" he asked, seemingly innocent but he sensed her walls go up, and her eyes were suddenly no longer as expressive.

"I don't know the name at all," she muttered, turning away so her back was to him. An evasion tactic if ever he saw one.

He felt her eyes alight on his skull, and knew when she tried to distract him.

"You have a skull in your living room?" she asked incredulously, still carefully not looking at him as she picked his skull up. Her eyes narrowed, squinting and he could almost hear her mind deducing as his did. "Burn marks between the eyebrows, slight perforation of the bone. A fracture of the skull caused by a close gunshot?"

"Correct again, Irene," he paused, now feeling uncomfortable. He gestured to the tea. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she shrugged, and wandered back into the kitchenette, to join Mrs Hudson and John as they chattered about mundane things. Sherlock's eyes remained narrowed as he watched them.

Irene knew something about Moriarty, he was sure of it. She had recognised the name, knew it enough to be scared of it, yet also displayed suspicion and loathing. She hated his mysterious 'fan'.

Interesting. The game was afoot.

Hours later, Irene sat on her bed, le

* * *

gs tucked under her chin in a borrowed t-shirt as nightgown, gazing out at the cityscape of London.

Moriarty.

Sherlock had said _his_ name.

Could it be he haunted her, even now, after so long?

Sherlock knew she knew his name, had seen it in his eyes. He couldn't hide it from her. He was like an open book to her, and she suspected it was vice versa for him.

They were annoyingly compatible.

She cursed her slip but promised herself she wouldn't do it again. She just had to keep some distance between herself and Sherlock.

That was what she would do.

* * *

Sherlock stood in his bedroom, arm braced on the wall beside the window, looking out over the cityscape of London at night. His mind buzzed with thousands of observations and deductions, but one dominated his mind.

One name.

Irene Adler.

She knew something about Moriarty, knew something which had obviously scared her but also made her loathe him. Lestrade had said her birth parents were killed when she was six. Moriarty?

She knew he knew she knew something. She was an open book to him, especially her eyes, and he had an annoying suspicion the connection worked both ways.

They were irritatingly alike.

He vowed to find out every last secret she possessed, needed to know like nothing else. It would be a challenge, though, to breach her walls and expose her inner self.

Sherlock Holmes lived for challenges.

He would find out everything, and perhaps ease the obsession in his mind, and the oddly tight feeling in his chest whenever he thought about her.

Yes, that was what he would do.


	5. A Dangerous Game

The Broken Tango

Chapter 5

* * *

It had been a month since she moved in. A month in which she had finally found somewhere to call home. Irene shifted in her chair, relishing the warmth of the fire flickering beside her, as she finished writing up her notes on the latest consultancy job.

Sherlock may not like doing them, but they paid good money and they were child's play. Irene shrugged, someone may as well do them.

It was certainly helpful keeping the rent paid, and the fridge full while Sherlock went off on one of his many investigations.

After their little silent understanding over the name of Moriarty, Irene had been careful never to go anywhere alone with Sherlock. Or be caught alone by him.

She had discovered an alarming susceptibility to his touch, his gaze. She could feel it on her whenever she moved around the flat.

He knew what she was up to.

But her plan was working. While her and John had become good friends, her relationship with Sherlock remained comfortably distant. Just the way it had to be.

Sherlock tried to tempt her out, knew that his talking very loudly about each new case only tortured her intelligence, but she refused to lose the game they were playing.

No matter how dangerous it was.

She could feel his rising frustration with her, and sooner or later, the volcano was going to explode.

* * *

She heard the door slam downstairs, and heard the hurried footsteps of two men rushing up the stairs. She didn't take her eyes away from her notes, as the slightly heavier tread of John Watson, and the quieter, more graceful footsteps of Sherlock Holmes entered the room.

Sherlock rushed straight into the kitchen without a greeting, but John stopped, his chest heaving.

"Alright?" he asked with a smile, one Irene returned. She laid her pen down with a sigh.

"Yeah. Any luck with the case?" she asked, glancing over at Sherlock who was now leafing through a phone directory and trying to type one-handed on his laptop.

"Yeah. We got a lead on where our man might be tonight, but neither of us have heard of the place," John wiped his eyes tiredly, relaxing back into his armchair. "What about you?"

"Oh, just another corporate vulture wanting me to find their hole in security. This one was in the CCTV loop, a fifteen second window which anyone with the technical expertise and capability could exploit. I recommended replacing the fifteen second loop with a one second one. Predictably they grumbled about the cost, and I told them not to come crying to me when someone cracks their system," she shrugged her shoulders, putting her notes and pen down. "What's the name you're looking for?"

"Somewhere called 'the Lucky Six'….you know it," John murmured, as Irene couldn't hold back a telltale tensing of her muscles. She heard the laptop slammed shut in the kitchenette, and Sherlock reappeared, in all his dark, detective glory, making her pulse pound. He gave off a palpable aura of energy, of vitality when he was like this, and Irene was far too susceptible for her liking.

"Yes, I did. From my adolescence," she murmured.

"Teenage tearaway, I take it," Sherlock replied coolly, stepping further into the room, eyes fixed on Irene. "From what we know of your past and relationship with your parents, it certainly fits."

"On the streets, you earn your own respect, being who you are not because you're rich. I preferred it that way: just me and my wits to survive," she explained. "I can give you directions, but unless it's changed in the past decade, you're not going to get in there alive without help."

"Which is why you're going to help us," Sherlock finished firmly, as Irene's brows rose.

"Oh, am I?" she muttered, tauntingly. John winced, before placing himself between the two before a fight broke out. He wasn't entirely sure who would win.

"Irene, please. You obviously know the ins and outs, and it could help us wrap up this case. Please?" he asked, and Irene relented.

"Fine," she muttered, tearing off a slip of paper from her notepad and scribbling an address. "Here. I'll meet you there at eight, that'll be the best time. Oh, and get changed. I know it's been at least a decade since either of you have set foot near a nightclub, but if you go in there looking like that, you'll be torn apart in seconds."

John sighed, as Irene stood and wandered first towards his room.

"Who are you looking for, anyway?" she asked, as she began rifling through his sparse wardrobe. His only consolation was that Sherlock clearly wasn't going to escape this either.

"A man called Riki Fujiwara," he told her, as Irene straightened.

"The Japanese crime lord's son? You'll be lucky to incriminate him. The Fujiwaras are an old family, formerly linked to the monarchy of Japan. They've got enough hooks in high places to get their own out of prison," she scoffed. She threw some clothes at him. "Here, these will have to do. I need you looking like you belong at that place, even if you are twenty years too old."

"Thanks…I think," John replied, not sure if he was supposed to feel insulted or not. She had picked out a leather jacket, tight jeans, trainers and a white t-shirt for him, rather than his usual plaid shirts. She disappeared, and he could hear Sherlock grumbling.

Loudly.

Then the door shut ominously, and John wondered if he should go and see if they were alright. After all, he didn't want one of his flatmates murdering the other.

* * *

Irene stayed perfectly still within the space between Sherlock's hands, trapping her against his door. Their faces were inches apart, their breaths mingling in the air, tension so thick it could have been sliced with a knife.

"I overheard your conversation with Watson. You know this Riki, you know the nightclub where he goes very well, and you're going to tell me how," he all but growled against her mouth.

The volcano had boiled over.

"Like you said, I was a teenage tearaway, albeit a clever one. So if you don't mind," Irene retorted coldly, reaching for the door handle, but he slammed it shut again with his palms flat against the wood before it could open an inch.

"I do mind. You haven't been entirely honest with us, Irene Adler. You reacted the night I said a certain name, you reacted with anger, loathing but most telling of all, _fear_. You know who I'm talking about, and you know enough to be scared. What's more you know I know you know, and so you've been avoiding me-"

"I didn't know you cared, Sherlock," she snapped sarcastically, as he closed his eyes and willed himself to be patient. Standing this close to her was distracting enough, without her angry and defensive.

"Shut. Up." Sherlock snarled, through gritted teeth, her perfume clogging his senses, making it very difficult to keep it together. "You've avoided being alone with me, or going anywhere where I might be able to get you alone to question you, despite how tempted you are by my work. So you're going to tell me now. What do you know about Moriarty?"

Irene inhaled shakily, fighting for composure. Bracing herself, she pushed Sherlock away, palms flat against his chest and gestured at the pile of clothes on the bed. "Get changed. While I might find you irritating beyond belief, Sherlock Holmes, I would rather you didn't get your head blown off within the first five minutes of getting inside."

And with that she made her escape, not seeing the darkening eyes or the pulsing anger now directed at her back. She cursed her stupidity in forgetting that she couldn't let him get her alone.

Just as she walked back into the living room, John re-emerged from his bedroom, looking younger and more chic than he had a moment ago. She wolf-whistled teasingly, as she searched for her mobile phone.

"You'll have to go on ahead," she said distractedly. "I'll meet you there."

"Why?" John asked, frowningly, neither noticing the opening and closing of Sherlock's bedroom door.

"I've got to call in a few favours," she gestured at her own clothes, a plain jumper and jeans. "from a couple of old girlfriends."

"Oh, ok," John muttered, slightly embarrassedly. He knew Irene didn't have much in the way of clothes, but hadn't wanted to pry or seem nosy.

"I need to look a certain way. The moment I step back into that place, I'll be recognised, and the only way I'll get close to Riki is if I go through certain channels," Irene continued, still hunting for her mobile.

"'Certain channels'?" Sherlock repeated behind them, as both spun to face him. John hid his gasp of surprise very well, but Irene's reaction was a little more helpless.

There simply was no other way of putting it, Sherlock looked _hot_.

The black shirt he wore clung to his wiry body, a fencer's body, while the casual dark jeans displayed his rather shapely legs.

Forcing her thundering heart to settle, Irene grabbed her mobile at last, hidden beneath a cushion and began texting.

"Right, I'll meet you there in two hours," she murmured, handing John the slip of paper with the address.

Without another word, she walked into her room and closed the door firmly.

* * *

In the silence that followed John's open mouth annoyed Sherlock.

"What?" he snapped, as he reached for his coat and scarf.

"Nothing," muttered John. "It's just…you're wearing jeans."

Sighing through gritted teeth, Sherlock walked out without a word, John following hurriedly in his wake.

* * *

Two hours and ten minutes later, Sherlock and John stood outside Lucky Six, the chill winter wind snaking through their thin clothes. John was irritable. Sherlock was beyond irritable.

"She's obviously not going to show up. Let's go in," John finally sighed, Sherlock acquiescing with a tight nod.

When they made it to the head of the queue, they were faced with two burly men, and Sherlock instantly noticed their concealed firearms.

"Names?" one of them barked, checking a list. John mentally groaned, thinking they were done for.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," Sherlock replied coolly, and to both men's utter surprise, the guard nodded.

"You're on the list. Enjoy," he cleared the way, and now John was thankful for Irene's choice of clothes when he felt the penetrating stares of the doormen on his and Sherlock's attire. They clearly passed muster, as they walked inside.

Inside the club was dark, shadows clinging to the walls which judging from the noises coming from them, John was very glad he couldn't see into them. The club consisted of a basement level, where the DJ and dance floor were, strobe lighting making it difficult to see. Street music played out of Bose speakers, deafeningly loud.

Sherlock and John stood on a balcony constructed of steel girders and industrial paraphernalia, teenagers and young adults milling around with drinks and cigarettes.

"Got your nicotine patch on?" John asked, as they stood at the balcony's edge, just to the side of the spiral staircase leading down to the dance floor.

"Yep." Sherlock grunted shortly, eyes scanning the dance floor below.

"Didn't think we were gonna get in," John muttered, with a shaky sigh. "How did they have our names on the list? Do you think Riki knows we're onto him?"

"Perhaps. But there is one other possibility: Irene. She may have got here before us, and since it's obvious from her knowledge of this place and its patrons, used her influence to ensure we got in. I think the latter more likely," Sherlock replied, eyes still scanning the crowd for Irene. He found and identified Riki, the short Asian man's eyes locked on a crowd of people encircling an area of dance floor lit up with fluorescent columns, currently in a shade of pink but they faded into other colours in a constant loop. Two people were dancing in the centre of the circle, and Sherlock looked away with derision.

"A street dance battle," John muttered, looking where Sherlock had been. Sherlock glanced at him askance, while he shrugged. "Saw it in a film once. Step Up…something."

Rolling his eyes, he went back to searching the throng for Irene, but John's hand suddenly latched onto his arm, tugging frantically.

"Sherlock! Look," he pointed back towards the 'battle', as Sherlock's eyes widened, despite himself.

One of the people 'battling' was Irene.

"I knew she could dance, but I didn't know she was a street dancer," John murmured, with a slight tone of awe. Sherlock was mesmerised for a moment, by the fluid, graceful yet edgy movements of their flatmate, as the crowd around her cheered.

"There's a lot we don't know about Miss Irene Adler," Sherlock muttered, leading the way down the spiral staircase, and towards the 'battle'. John went to follow, but Sherlock shook his head. "Wait here. Keep an eye out."

"Yeah, sure," John muttered, eying the melee below with trepidation anyway. "I'll just yell and hope you can hear me above that racket!"

"Text me!" Sherlock called back, as John rolled his eyes acerbically.

* * *

Irene was once again in that familiar trance she fell into when she danced. She had always loved street dance, the unpredictability of it, the rawness, the acrobatic and improvisational ability needed to succeed.

The freedom.

In her adolescence it had been her escape, her way of gaining respect on the streets.

So this challenge she'd taken up to attract Riki's attention was both a necessity and a chance to relive some of her youth. She still had it.

When she danced, she was free of everything. Free of her past, of her present, free of the uncertainty of her future.

When she danced, all that existed was her, the beat of the music, and the beat of her heart.

Movements came as naturally as thought, as utterly complicated and yet simple as the deductions she could make about the people here from just looking at them.

But a familiar feeling of heat swept over her, and she knew _he_ was here.

Sherlock was watching her.

She heard the end of the song coming up, and played her trump card. She spun, building up momentum before leaping into the air before the assembled crowd, using her trademark move.

She stretched her legs out behind her, bent at the knee, doing the same with her spine, so when she landed, her long hair was brushing the floor, her entire body stretched taut.

* * *

The roar of the crowd told her she had won the battle, as she looked up.

Straight into the burning eyes of Sherlock Holmes, as she stood up slowly, gracefully while another pair took her place behind her. Wordlessly she slid into the crowd beside him, knowing that she had got Riki's attention, and she would eventually be summoned.

Aggros Santos' 'Candy' played, as she led him away from the battle space, when a drunk blocked her way. She felt him stiffen behind her, but she could more than handle any stupid drunk.

"Hey there, honey," he slurred. "You were hot up there. Fancy a drink?"

The crowd surged, and she was pushed against him, a mass of people separating her from Sherlock, as she looked up, feeling the drunk's erection against her abdomen. He leered.

"Maybe," she stretched up on her toes, teasingly pressing against him even while her lip curled in disgust. With one jerk of her knee, he collapsed, gasping from a hit to the groin, and she bent down, pressing a red lipstick kiss to his stubbly cheek. "Or maybe not. I'm out of your league."

With that she moved away, looking around for Sherlock when a hand curled around her elbow, yanking her back. She spun, raising her other elbow to counter, when another hand flicked up to hold it. She met Sherlock's eyes, and sighed in relief.

Then the crowd surged again, so they were shoved together, crushed from breast to hip. Arms looped around his neck, Irene swore that she could feel her heart beating against her ribcage, as she slowly looked up into Sherlock's eyes.

Burning eyes.

She swallowed, at the intensity in his gaze, remembering her vow not to let him get her anywhere alone.

That was pretty much void now.

"Quite a display. Both displays," Sherlock muttered in her ear, hands tightly holding her waist.

"I can handle myself," Irene replied, horrified to hear her voice come out rather strangled.

"Evidently. Remind me never to proposition you while drunk," he retorted, a glitter in his usually cold eyes that sent shivers down her spine. He still hadn't let her go even though the crowd had eased.

"We have to dance," she spat out abruptly, determined not to let her ridiculous susceptibility show. Sherlock's brow arched, and she mentally hit her head on a brick wall. "People are going to notice if we're the only two people on a dance floor, not dancing. So dance with me, and at the same time we can look for Riki."

"If the lady asks," Sherlock inclined his head, his hands around her waist bringing her even closer if possible. Her eyes widened, as she cursed in her head.

She was definitely going to regret this.

Their game had just got dangerous.


	6. Hungry Eyes

The Broken Tango

Chapter 6

* * *

Sherlock had barely been able to take his eyes off of Irene since she had leapt towards him at the end of the 'battle'. She was breathtaking.

The little shrew in his arms now turned into a vixen. A dangerous one at that, considering her action with that drunk. Something within Sherlock had growled at the thought of his hands on her, but she had dealt with him before he could reach her again.

Her clothes didn't help either, damn them. A month of eating, and not doing as much exercise had seen some fat return to her taut frame, but the muscle still remained underneath, so she remained physically strong and fit but now she looked more feminine and soft.

Definitely soft, considering how tightly they were pressed together in the crowd now, swaying slightly to the beat as they looked surreptitiously for Riki Fujiwara.

But a part of Sherlock's mind was reliving the moment he saw her, body haloed by the red light of the fluorescent columns as she danced, ferocious as a lioness but with all the skill, agility and fluidity of a ballet dancer.

Her long hair was loose down her back, rippling around her like a cloak, her little dancer's body encased in tight blue jeans and a red top, cut off at the waist so her toned abdomen could be seen. He hadn't noticed before that her navel was pierced, or that she had a tattoo of the triquetra, a pagan symbol, on her lower back. The top emphasised her newfound curves, and the smooth texture of her skin.

Sherlock could feel the heat of it under his palms even now. The effect had been bad before, but now…

It was unbearable.

Her body tightly pressed against his now, was eliciting a lust he had never known before. Certainly, he had had sexual intercourse before, felt desire but it had been like every other emotion in his complex mind. Detached.

Not this time.

With the mystery she represented, and the challenge she had issued him, she was fast becoming an obsession, one he needed to crack, needed to solve, needed to _own_.

She was his.

* * *

Determinedly, he tamped down the possessive, disgustingly primal urge, recalling their purpose despite the soft form pressed to his, their bodies provocatively swaying to the beat, their lips only inches apart as their alert eyes scanned the crowd for Riki.

"I will find out, you know," he murmured in her ear, his hot breath blowing gently across her skin. An unmistakeable shiver rippled through her, and her hands tightened at the nape of his neck.

She turned her head to face his, confusion in her silver eyes, but he didn't deign to explain further, returning to his search for their suspect.

"Where's John?" she suddenly asked, in his ear, her scarlet painted lips gently brushing his skin. He had to fight down a shiver of his own, before raising his eyes to the balcony where they had been standing. She glanced up over her shoulder, before returning her gaze to somewhere over his shoulder.

As the music turned faster, their movements were forced to speed up, making each touch of their clothes a pure agony of sensitive desire, their hot, sticky skin heating and conducting it to the other. Sherlock was conscious of the urge to drag her off somewhere, preferably some dark, isolated corner and not let her go until she had revealed all, body and soul. Then he saw him.

* * *

Irene, suffocating in a sea of her own mingled idiocy and desire, felt Sherlock stiffen, and she looked at him.

"A bouncer, at six' o'clock. Clearly your old friend Riki wants a word," he whispered in her ear, and she nodded, turning around in his hold so her back fit comfortably against his chest.

Her backside against his groin too.

"He'll take me alone. No arguments, Sherlock, this could be our only chance. He'll take me out back to the alleyway," she muttered out the corner of her mouth, not even pausing to let him speak. Eventually he nodded, and she knew he wasn't happy.

"I'll be in the shadows," he whispered in her ear, his hands easing just a bit around her waist. Rashly, Irene decided to get some payback for the past few minutes, which she was sure he had done on purpose to attack her composure, and rocked her hips back against Sherlock's, smirking with not a little bit of vanity when she felt him harden, and his breath inhale through gritted teeth.

"Is that a gun, Sherlock, or are you just happy to see me?" she asked teasingly, darting a glance over her shoulder as the bouncer reached them.

"A gun," he muttered repressively, as the burly six footer gestured Irene to follow him.

Irene smiled, and lingered in his arms just long enough to stretch back like a cat in his arms and purr, "Liar."

* * *

Sherlock watched with narrowed eyes, as Irene walked away, hips swaying just to provoke him, he was sure.

Thanks to that bloody…woman, he was now thoroughly aroused and it was affecting his concentration. A buzzing sensation in his pocket distracted him enough, as he slid it out and checked the message from John.

**Watch it there, Romeo. What's goin on?**

Ignoring the 'Romeo' jibe, Sherlock texted back rapidly, adding a request for John to go out and hail a cab, so their escape route was ready and waiting.

Tucking his phone away, he tracked Irene through the crowd, drawn by some sixth sense of her location, and out into the cold night.

* * *

Irene refused to shiver as she stepped into the dark, damp alleyway behind Lucky Six. She knew it was vital she show no emotion, betray no nervousness or fear, or they would be exploited.

Riki Fujiwara was a short, slender man now, in his thirties. His expensive Armani shirt clashed with his cargo trousers and Converse sneakers, a gold loop hanging from his left ear.

He had his hands in his pockets, standing cockily before her, as she mentally noted the positions of his bodyguards around him.

"You're lookin' good, Rini," he began, with just the slightest hint of a Japanese accent. She wanted to flinch at the name she had used on the streets. "What's it been? Eight years?"

"You obviously remember better than I do, Riki," she replied coolly. He mock-clutched his heart, sniggering.

"Still quick. Ouch, that hurt. Still got the moves too, I see," he replied, with a leer she knew she didn't like.

"There have been rumours, Riki. People are looking for you, people who know you killed that enforcer," she began, cautiously. One wrong move and she was dead.

"Yeah, I did. He was gonna rat on me, he needed to go," Riki shrugged nonchalantly, almost proudly. Inwardly, Irene smiled. A confession for the courts, picked up by her mike, hidden in the bulletproof pad she wore beneath her top.

If she slipped up, she could only hope Riki's goons would stay true to form and shoot for the heart, not the head.

"Why do you want to know, anyway?" Riki suddenly cottoned on, suspicious as she smiled a shark grin. She felt a wave of heat and knew Sherlock was standing close, in the shadows.

His domain.

She had managed to sneak a gun in past the doormen, and she guessed Sherlock would have done too.

So when the bodyguards suddenly levelled semi-automatics at her heart, she only smiled calmly.

"Because you're going down," she murmured, arching one eyebrow. She made a move to reach for her gun, but the first gunshot rang out before she could get it. She felt a punch to the chest, collapsing to the ground, winded.

She heard Sherlock's alarmed cry from the shadows, before she reached her gun and shot one bodyguard in the foot, rising to a kneeling position to fire at the second.

Then she noticed the little red dot trembling slightly on her chest.

Sherlock dragged her away, just as the first shot rang out, missing them both.

"No, not that way. He'll have the alleyway entrance covered, we've got to go back through the club. There's no other way out," she gasped, still not quite getting her breath back. Sherlock agreed with a terse nod.

"We'll discuss this later," he growled, taking hold of her hand and yanking her back into the melee of the dance floor, dragging her to the entrance.

Sounds of pursuit followed them, and she knew they'd be caught if they didn't find somewhere to hide long enough to throw their pursuers off the scent and make their escape.

* * *

Apparently Sherlock had had the same thought, because he pulled her into a corner, dark and shadowy, a place she knew was notoriously used for either quickies or drug taking.

"Where on earth did you get a bulletproof vest, since that is the only possible way you could have survived a point blank range shot from a semi automatic?" Sherlock hissed furiously, as he swung her around and against the wall. Gasping for air already, she glared at him, unhooking her mike and recorder, slapping it into his hand.

"I may have been dishonourably discharged but I still have friends in the military," she replied shortly, trying to look over his shoulder but he shifted, refusing to let her show her face. They hadn't had enough time to catch a glimpse of his, thanks to her…manoeuvre, and he was broad enough that all anyone could see of her was one jean-clad ankle.

He moved a bit closer, tucking her between him and the wall, just as her womanly warmth impinged on his senses, taking him back to that horrible moment in the alley when he'd thought she was dead.

He was angry, afire with adrenaline and the exhilaration of the chase, aroused by her proximity and the fact that he had nearly _lost_ her.

Her recklessness was terrifying, an emotion Sherlock never felt, and knew he didn't want to feel again.

He looked down at Irene, intending to tell her quite unequivocally, no matter their precarious situation, that she was never to do that again, but the sight of her red lips and thoroughly alive face, eyes sparkling with anger and defiance almost shredded his sorely tested control.

"You will never do that again," he growled, pressing into her just a little, as she gasped and unconsciously clung to the contact.

"You have no right to tell me what to do," she replied coldly, glaring at him. "Absolutely no right at al-ll!"

But her final words were lost by the lips abruptly covering her own, tongue surging deep into her mouth domineeringly, leaving her no time to argue or fight.

She didn't want to.

She kissed him back, urgently, rocking her hips into his. There was nothing gentle about this kiss, nothing sweet or poignant. It was sex, dirty and powerful, but it was also an argument, furious and heated.

Sherlock shifted, one hand sliding down the curve of her thigh to her knee, his mind coming up with the excuse that their pursuers would be less likely to spot them in the shadows like this, especially as Irene's body was entirely hidden by his, and that they would be unlikely to interrupt a couple in the middle of a makeout session, as per the illusion.

Or so he desperately tried to convince himself, as he hitched her knee up to his hip, so he was pressed against her core, drinking in her gasp through their fused mouths.

He ground his hips into hers, crushing her against the wall, needing to feel her soft body surrendered to his, that primal urge he'd suppressed now returned full force.

Her hands slid into his hair, ruffling it and twining with the unruly curls, as he groaned and tilted her head back, deepening the angle of the kiss.

* * *

"Come on, they went this way!" a voice shouted, and Sherlock raised his head, panting now, as he glimpsed a couple of bodyguards and Riki Fujiwara running straight past them unheedingly.

With any luck they would all be in prison soon, thanks to the confession on Irene's tape.

"Come on, staff entrance," he grunted, taking Irene's hand and pulling her along without looking at her, unable to for fear that she would see what she had done to him.

The cab was waiting for them, John opening the door as they bundled into it and already on the phone to Lestrade, before the black painted vehicle thundered away into the late night traffic of London.


	7. Proving A Point

The Broken Tango

**Yeah, the rating and the above category should really warn you about what is going to happen. So don't like don't read.**

**I own nothing. **

Chapter 7

* * *

Irene had to fight down the occasional tremor on the ride home, carefully refusing to meet Sherlock's eye, although she could feel his gaze on her.

Remembering their…kiss in the club, she felt a deep anger stirring within her, coupled with a cold fear. He was getting too close for comfort, and knowing Sherlock, he would only use it to discover what she knew about Moriarty.

For all his inhuman intelligence and unemotional ways, Sherlock Holmes was just like any other man. She could never trust him.

And yet, some silly, naïve part of her did. A part of her that had translated the roughness in his voice, and the fire in his eyes as possessive protectiveness.

But it wasn't, she was sure of that. Sherlock Holmes didn't do human emotions.

She sucked in the cool night air when the cab door opened, clambering out before Sherlock or John, heading straight for the door to escape, but Sherlock's muttered conversation with John had her pausing.

"You not coming in?" he asked.

"Nope, I said I'd meet Sarah for a drink after we'd finished. Don't wait up, and try not to kill each other while I'm gone. You know how much Mrs Hudson gets upset about the mess," John chuckled to himself, closing the cab door.

When Sherlock turned around, Irene had already gone inside.

* * *

She was waiting when he walked through his open door, standing in front of the fireplace, arms folded.

Eyebrow cocked at her defiant stance, Sherlock shrugged off his coat and scarf, taking his time as the tension between them stretched taut.

Finally Irene broke. "We both know what you're going to say, so just say it and get it over with," she snapped, albeit coldly, calmly. Underneath his icy exterior, Sherlock was anything but calm.

"A few very interesting things occurred to me tonight, Irene," he began, stuffing his hands in his trousers pockets as he slowly stalked closer. She didn't move from her stance, didn't even blink. "From your…association with our suspect, it seems obvious that you once had underworld contacts. Equally your refusal to tell me anything of your past except what I've deduced myself only increases the likelihood that it was a troubled one, one far more troubled than being orphaned at six. And then there's Moriarty. You know of him, that's clear, but I am willing to bet you not only know of him, you know _him_. Otherwise why else would he be protecting the Fujiwaras? He knew you would come looking for him, the moment you heard the suspect's name."

"Now we've got that over with," Irene replied, still coldly controlled. "I have a question of my own. Why did you kiss me?"

"Oh no, no, no you're not evading me this time," Sherlock raised his finger warningly, halting in his tracks as he glared at his nemesis. "How do you know Moriarty?"

"Oh now look who's evading the question! Denial is an obvious choice," she snarled in reply, and he wanted to growl in frustration.

"Why won't you tell me?" he enunciated each word clearly, conscious of his temper rising. No one had ever had quite the same ability to bait it as Irene did.

"Because Sherlock, you don't have any right to know every secret I've ever had. What you don't know won't hurt you," she replied, and he thought he could hear a slight tone of a promise in her voice.

She had also said 'won't', not 'can't'.

"Are you going to answer my question?" Irene asked, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "Why did you kiss me?"

Sherlock simply glared at her, not quite trusting his mouth.

"You made the first move, not me. The untouchable Sherlock Holmes, actually acting like a human being," Irene pretended to shake her head in wonder, smirking.

"Don't pretend you weren't unaffected, Irene. If I recall correctly, you kissed back in quite a…involved way too," Sherlock was smiling now, continuing his stalk forward.

Irene had never quite imagined that Sherlock could be seductive, or sensual, but the way he was walking towards her now; slow, graceful and assured, one hand in his pocket; his curly hair still slightly dishevelled from their run through the club and the kiss, his eyes smouldering and that slight curl to his lips…

"I don't know what you're talking about," she finally breathed, as he stepped around her. She saw the trap, knew what he was about to do, but his hands slid around her waist from behind before she could move.

His hot breath on her neck, being so utterly surrounded by him, made her knees feel like jelly. But she wasn't about give in.

"Yes, you do, Irene. From the moment we touched on that bloody dance floor," he growled in her ear, sucking in a pained breath when she wriggled against his hold. "I have reached the end of my tether with you."

* * *

He playfully bit her earlobe, making her gasp and stretch back in his arms, like she did at Lucky Six, exposing her long, swan-like neck to him. Tucking her even more firmly against him, he gently brushed her neck with his lips, before lowering his mouth to her pulse, marking it with his teeth.

At the same time, his hand over her waist began to drift downwards…

Irene caught it, inhaling sharply as she swore inside her head, cursing her weakness. "Don't you dare!" she barked through gritted teeth. She knew full well what he was trying to do. He was trying to make her react; make her react so unequivocally she couldn't deny it.

"Just proving my point, Irene," he breathed in her ear, before she found the strength to push his restraining arm away, turning to face him, trembling with a mix of anger and desire.

"You don't have a point to make, Sherlock; because you have absolutely no idea, do you? Not a single clue. You are as cold and as dead as the corpses whose murders you solve. You're a heartless bastard who will use anything, any slight weakness just to prove your 'superiority'-" she told him, coldly and yet shaking with everything she was feeling right then. Unlike Sherlock, she was not ice and emptiness, she was on fire, and she hated him for getting past her defences like that.

"Are you finished?" he interrupted her harshly, his icy eyes glittering and she wondered what she had just unleashed with her unthinking, temper-driven tirade.

Slowly she began to back away, but Sherlock was too quick for her.

He grasped her face between his elegant hands, tilted it up urgently, and covered her lips with his.

* * *

Frozen, Irene couldn't move, even when she felt the hard wood of the doorframe against her back, Sherlock's body pressing into hers, as he released her face to grasp her limp arms.

Realisation dawned, and Irene tried to struggle, knowing how dangerous this was getting, how much she wanted it but couldn't have it. But Sherlock's lips were insistent, his tongue very teasingly swiping at her closed lips, his hot body a seductive invitation.

She could feel herself weakening, her body softening, arching into his compliantly, the will to resist him slowly crumbling into dust, so she quickly evaluated her options.

Not that her mind was working too well at the moment.

She knew this was now a new game between them, just another avenue for Sherlock to attack her through, so she had to beat him. Defeat wasn't an option, but she wasn't strong enough to push him away, or to resist him. Which left attack her only viable choice.

Shrugging off his hands, she slid hers up his torso, to his face. Gliding her fingers partway into his unruly curls, she framed his face and kissed him back.

That's when all reason and logic went out the window, and both of them stopped thinking, stopped trying to get one up on each other, stopped denying what was becoming clearer day by day.

Sherlock groaned into her mouth as her fingernails raked across his skull, rolling his hips into hers rhythmically, drinking in her resulting moans, as he picked her up, using the weight of his body to keep her crushed against the doorframe, her legs hanging loosely around his waist.

But he himself was becoming increasingly desperate; seduced by the feel of her body against his, tactile sensations of cloth riding against cloth and skin on skin like nothing he had ever felt before. He was drunk on the taste of her, the feel of her, giddy, his head unable to focus.

He blindly turned her and stumbled towards the sofa, tumbling her down onto it, following before she had a chance to reorient, taking advantage of her open mouth to lay claim to it, drinking deeply. She arched beneath him, pressing against his arousal as he broke off the kiss, holding himself above her on his elbows; her legs splayed either side of his hips. Eyes closed in pleasure, he had no warning when the world suddenly tilted, and he felt the hard impact of the floor against his back. Irene dropped on top of him, straddling his hips, her long brunette hair hanging around their faces like a sultry curtain in the dark flat.

Her sirenlike eyes were slightly fogged, lids heavy, as she silently gazed down at him before just brushing his lips with a feather-soft kiss, drifting her lips down over his chin, nuzzling his jaw before gliding over the sensitive skin of his neck. Using her hand, she tilted his chin back, giving her better access to his throat, as she kissed and sucked hungrily, making Sherlock groan through gritted teeth beneath her. He thrust his now aching body up into hers, making her gasp and pause for a moment, pressing back into him, biting her lower lip.

His neck stinging from her teeth, in the cool air of the flat, Sherlock sat up, bringing her lips back to his frantically, raking his hands through her satin soft hair, before grasping a hunk of it and pulling, forcing her neck back so he could take his turn hungrily caressing and claiming the vulnerable skin of her neck with his tongue and lips. He flipped her over onto her back, removing her wandering hands from his back to pin them to the floor, kissing her deeply, flicking her tongue with his.

Irene idly wondered if it was possible to feel both afire and frozen at once. She had been very wrong when she'd said Sherlock was cold. He was fire and ice, both at once, and he was burning her alive.

She had never wanted anything more.

He was perfect, so perfect, and the most infuriatingly arrogant, obnoxious, smug, conceited, brilliant, driven and courageous man she had ever known.

Everything he was doing to her was driving her insane. The rocking of his hips into hers, eliciting a torturous friction between their lower bodies, accompanied by the urgent caress of their lips, starving and desperate; the artist's hands holding her wrists imprisoned so she couldn't touch him, when she so _needed_ to.

_Need_ had long ago replaced desire, passion riding in its wake so both were helpless. Neither of them knew how to handle this level of emotion, had never had to handle it before. Irene wondered how she would ever be able to survive without his kiss again.

And that scared her.

* * *

Sherlock could barely think through the bombardment of physical sensations, as he released her wrists to slide her top up, just a little as he broke from her mouth, kissing down her neck, down her sternum as she sucked in a breath, arching into him, so he could slide his hands between the floor and her back, tracing the indent of her spine, before laving her navel with his tongue.

He couldn't get enough of her. Her taste, her touch, her lips, her moans, like music to his ears. His mental obsession with her had crossed over into the physical, perhaps it had been from the beginning, but he had been too blind and too arrogant to acknowledge it.

Free, Irene's fingers slid into his hair, twining with the ruffled locks as he devoured her body, using her feet to thrust her hips up, pressing her abdomen into his mouth. He took the offering gladly, despite not entirely knowing how they had ended up like this. When he had kissed her, he'd done it partly out of anger, partly to force her to acknowledge that he was right.

He hadn't expected she would kiss him back, like that, and so greedily. It had been their undoing.

* * *

Wanting her mouth again, he lowered her body back to the floor and pulled himself back over her, bending his head to her waiting lips-

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson's voice echoed up the stairs, making them pause, freezing like deer caught in the headlights. "Sherlock, dear?"

In his head Sherlock used several highly insulting expletives, feeling frustration rise as he looked down into Irene's eyes, glazed over with desire and passion.

She licked her dry, swollen lips, sending another surge of arousal through him, making him shut his eyes. Their lips were so close, another centimetre and they'd be kissing again. The temptation to just ignore Mrs Hudson, and resume what they had started was strong but…

"Not helping, Irene," he growled, his voice a harsh croak, as her eyes narrowed.

"Mrs Hudson can't see us like this," she replied, her voice just as hoarse. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, challengingly.

"High-functioning sociopath, remember?" he replied. "What do I care what she sees?"

"Sherlock!" again came the shout, and the first signs of someone about to climb the stairs.

Both were so immersed in each other, so connected and attuned that to separate now felt like a physical blow. Irene braced herself for the soul-deep wrench as she shoved him off of her, onto his back beside her, both panting and gasping for air.

Desire still ran rampant, so hot it was almost painful, as she raised a shaking hand to her eyes, brushing the loose hair out of them.

Sherlock sat up, and her eyes ran over him hungrily, over his swollen mouth and the red marks already showing on his neck. She sensed she had the same on her own skin.

His eyes were burning, deliciously so, and his hair couldn't have been messier.

Shutting her eyes to him, Irene sat up, pushing away his hand as he tried to help her stand.

"Don't touch me," she whispered fiercely. This was becoming too dangerous. Despite what she had said, her past was dangerous, and any time now the pack of cards that was her life could come crashing down. She couldn't afford this, not now, not ever. "You are never going to kiss me again, let alone touch me."

"I beg to differ, Irene," Sherlock said quietly from the floor, as she stumbled away to her room, forcing herself not to look back, afraid he would see the pain in her eyes, the tears and the yearning.

As she closed the door, bolting it shut, she heard Mrs Hudson's surprised, affectionately exasperated, "What are you doing on the floor, Sherlock?"


	8. Remembering Maria

The Broken Tango

**Ok, just wanted to say thanks for all the really positive reviews. I knew when I started this that my Irene was not exactly canon I.e. not American, or a criminal (Ok so not canon at all) and that Sherlock purists might dislike him getting into a physical relationship with someone, so I'm glad that people are looking at this with an open mind. Also glad to see someone else doing Irene fic, although hers is more like canon than mine: The Cold Hard Facts, check it out!**

**Cause with someone as gorgeous and just drop-dead sexy as Benedict Cumberbatch playing Sherlock, this was just inevitable! ;P**

Chapter 8

* * *

Irene angrily thumped her pillow, as she tossed for the fortieth time. She couldn't sleep, every brush of the sheets and touch of the cold bed reminding her of those heated minutes on the floor of the living room.

She felt a blush creep up her neck, remembering the taste of him, his scent, the feel of his hair beneath her fingers.

A second later she groaned, thumping her pillow again.

It was all bloody Sherlock Holmes' fault!

She glanced at her alarm clock, the obnoxiously bright blue display telling her it was 2 in the morning. Sighing, she got out of bed, grabbed her dressing gown and decided to grab her sleeping pills.

Although she hadn't told Sherlock or John, Irene had suffered from insomnia before, mostly self-inflicted. When she slept, memories she would much rather forget always rose to the surface, and not sleeping meant she didn't have to see them again.

She slipped out into the dark hallway, glancing nervously at Sherlock's closed bedroom door, before going into the bathroom.

She didn't bother to flick the light on, knowing by memory where her sleeping pills were. She swallowed one, before splashing her face with cold water, soothing her hot skin.

Leaning over the sink, she looked at her shadowy reflection, the full moon outside reflecting silvery light, enough to see by.

Even to Irene, she looked like hell.

Her lips were still swollen and red from Sherlock's hungry kisses, and the marks on her neck stood out like a sore thumb. She half-heartedly rubbed at them with a flannel, but if anything they only seemed more visible.

For one wild moment, she imagined him finding her here alone, in the middle of the night, imagined him…

Stop that right there, Irene Adler!

It had to be the drugs taking effect, making her mind wander to places it had no place being. Irene shook herself and left the bathroom.

When she fell into bed, it wasn't into a dreamless slumber.

* * *

_The newly six-year old Maria sat in her sun-soaked garden, happily playing with a Rubik cube she'd got for her birthday. Within seconds she had it done._

"_Mummy, mummy!" she laughed, jumping as her beautiful mother walked out of the house. She was a beautiful woman with flowing brunette hair and dark grey eyes, an adult version of her daughter. Her eyes would crinkle at the corners when she smiled._

_Little Maria didn't notice that this time her mother's eyes didn't crinkle at the corners when she smiled._

"_Mummy, I finished it!" she squealed happily, holding it up for her mother to see. She bent down, smoothing the unruly ringlets of her daughter's hair with her palm. "When is Daddy home?" Maria asked._

"_Soon, darling, soon," she murmured, taking the Rubik cube from her daughter's hand. "Well done, darling."_

_But Little Maria's daddy didn't come home that evening. She blew out the candles on her birthday cake alone, with her mother taking pictures. Afterwards, her mother led her by the hand to her bedroom, and knelt down._

"_We're going to play a little game, Maria. Simon Says, ok?"_

"_Oh mummy, that game's so easy," Maria whined, but the serious look in her mother's eyes caught her attention. "Why are you so sad, Mummy? Is it because Daddy's not home yet?"_

_Sometimes Maria was too perceptive for her own good._

"_A little, honey. Now, let's play for me, sweetheart," Maria's mother murmured, with a smile which didn't reach her eyes. "Simon Says, get your rucksack."_

_Obediently, Maria grabbed the smart black school bag from her wardrobe._

"_Good, that's good. Now Simon Says go and get some underwear," was the next order. And so it went on and on, until the black rucksack was packed as if for a trip. Last to go in was her little Rubik cube, completed that day._

"_Good, Maria, good," her mother whispered, and then she held out her hands to her daughter. "Now come here."_

"_You didn't say Simon Says," Maria muttered playfully, before bounding into her mother's arms anyway, hugging her tightly. Her mother held her, almost crushing the little girl as she wriggled in discomfort._

"_Mummy, you're hurting me," she breathed._

"_Sorry, honey," but her mother's grip didn't ease, her voice choking slightly. "Tonight, before you go to bed I want you to keep a coat by your bedside and some shoes, ok? And be ready to run when I tell you, understand?"_

"_Mummy, you're frightening me," Maria replied, pulling back from her beautiful mummy to look in her eyes. But to her fear and consternation, they were shuttered, unreadable to the intelligent six-year old._

"_Just do as I say, Maria. Promise me," her mother said fiercely, and Maria nodded once._

_Maria couldn't sleep that night. Her smart black coat, and a pair of trainers waited by her bedside, her packed schoolbag within easy reach. The house was silent, eerily so, and shadows moved across the little girl's room, littered with books and toys._

_Suddenly the door burst open, and Maria's mother rushed in, terror in her silver eyes._

"_Maria, come on, into your coat!" she dragged the girl out of bed, forcing it on her and doing the buttons up in a rush. Maria, confused and scared, got into her shoes and only just had time to grab her rucksack when her mother went to her window and opened it. Outside, the roof of the conservatory sloped downwards, until it was only eight feet from the ground._

_There suddenly came an almighty crash of a door being kicked in downstairs, and Maria's mother spun. She grabbed Maria and gave her a leg up, onto the window sill._

"_Listen to me, Maria. I want you to climb down the drainpipe, go to the garden gate and run. Just run, don't come back, don't look back just run. Promise me," she gripped her daughter's face, tears now freely running down her face. Maria shook her head fiercely._

"_I want to stay with you!" she whispered, crying now too. Her mother glanced over her shoulder, before rushing to the door and slamming it shut, barring it and putting a chair in front of it. It was futile, but it would hold them off for a few minutes._

"_Listen to me, Maria. I need you to run. You have to live, you have to. I love you so much, and you must be a brave girl, always be a brave girl. Trust no-one, don't let anyone ever manipulate you or use you. Just run, and keep running, and you'll survive. I love you," she told the girl urgently, hugging her once and kissing her cheek one last time. "Now go."_

_Crying silently, Maria did as she was told. She slid down the glass roof, creaking dangerously under her weight, and managed to climb down the drainpipe. Angry shouts came from the house, and she could hear crashing noises coming from her bedroom, where her mother still stood, watching her as she tore across the lawn, the moonless night giving her cover. Maria reached the back gate and unlatched the rusty lock, before looking back one last time._

_Her mother blew her a kiss, before slamming the window shut._

_Maria ran, without looking back._

_Hours later, the dawn had just begun to break, when tired, frozen little Maria stumbled up the garden pathway to her house. She had run to the next house and hidden in their shed, the lock no match for a Kirby grip._

_Fear clutched at her heart, when she saw the open door with the broken locks, and the smashed glass of the mirror in the front hall. She walked in slowly, peering around the corners in case anyone bad was still here._

"_Mummy! Daddy?" she called, shivering. There was an awful tangy, metallic smell in the air, and little Maria wrinkled her nose. She decided to check the master bedroom, walking up the stairs wearily._

_She froze when she saw the pool of blood in front of her bedroom door. Shaking, tears now creeping down her face, as her quick little mind realised why her mummy had sent her away, why daddy hadn't come home last night…_

_But the child in her refused to see it._

"_MUMMY! DADDY!" she screamed, rushing into the bedroom, following a trail of blood, before she stopped._

_Her mother lay on the bed, her luxurious silk night robe stained deep crimson by an angry, raw red line across her delicate, porcelain white throat, eyes wide, frozen in terror. Her Daddy lay beside her, bruised and mangled almost beyond recognition if it hadn't been from his bright gold hair._

_Blood covered the pillows and bedcovers, trailing across the walls._

_Falling to her knees, little Maria felt the messages written across the walls, the bedroom mirror burnt forever into her mind._

_Slut._

_Traitor._

_Whore._

_And on the ceiling…_

_Loyalty is all, nothing is death…_

_Little six-year old Maria opened her mouth and screamed._

* * *

Irene cried out and sat bolt upright, panting wildly as she felt arms restraining her, holding her down.

"Irene! Irene calm down, it's me!" someone said, in soothing, calming tones, as she slowly stopped thrashing like a trapped animal.

She looked sideways, into Sherlock's icy blue eyes, before her strength failed and she slumped into him, crying.

Sherlock was mildly surprised when she threw herself into his arms, as he sat there helplessly. He heard her yelling from his room, and had come to investigate.

The sight that had met his eyes had filled him with horror and pity.

The sight of his Irene tossing and turning, crying in her sleep, beautiful face contorted in terror and sorrow, crying out for someone.

Her mother and father.

Now he had a near hysterical Irene in his arms, and he had no idea what to do. He vaguely recalled how Mycroft had comforted him as a child, when he'd awoken from nightmares.

Before their feud had come between them.

Like his brother had done, he awkwardly put his arms around her, hugging her to him and discovering that it was quite nice doing this. Not the fact that she was slowly soaking his shirt through, but that holding her soft, warm body to his felt good. Right.

How it should be.

He soothed her with his voice, gently hushing her until her sobs quietened, while he caressed her back through her thin pyjamas.

"Sssh, it was just a nightmare, you're safe now," he breathed into her ear, brushing her hair away from her face. "It wasn't real."

* * *

But he was wrong. He had no idea how real it had been, seventeen years ago.

The night her parents had died, and she ceased to be Maria and became Irene Adler.

* * *

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you," Irene finally sniffed, trembling slightly in his hold. Sherlock felt strangely protective of her, seeing her vulnerability, so he didn't even feel the urge to question her about her nightmares.

Or why she had lied to him and John about her sleeping pills. Very clever hiding them in an old box of tampons, the one place no man would go looking if he could avoid it. The only reason he'd spotted them was because she had left the lid on the bathroom counter, and the packet open so the brown bottle stuck out.

"It's alright. I was awake anyway," he muttered. Still dressed and wide awake, he had been just going to the bathroom when he'd heard her cries.

There had been no way in hell he was going to be able to sleep after those heated moments in the living room earlier.

He was even less likely to sleep now, with her in this state.

So he let go of all his questions, and frustration at her intransigence, refused to let his lust rise or listen to his mind prodding him to use her weakness to his advantage.

No, he just sat there with her and stroked her hair, until her shuddering stopped.

"Why are you here?" Irene abruptly asked, looking up with suspicion in her silver eyes. Sherlock brushed a lock of hair back, feeling her suppressed shudder and only smiled softly.

"I heard you crying," he murmured.

He couldn't bear her crying like that, so heartbrokenly, so hopelessly.

"I had to see you were alright," he continued awkwardly, as Irene glanced towards the door.

"I locked my door," she murmured, frowning, still not moving from his embrace.

"No, you didn't. You must have forgotten to lock it again after you took your sleeping medication," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, as she glanced at him in alarm.

"Sherlock-"

"Don't worry about it now. You need to sleep," he cut her off, gently, letting her know with his eyes that he wasn't going to start interrogating her. Now was not the time or the place.

"Thank you," she breathed, resting her head on his shoulder and inhaling his scent deep, letting it calm her.

Sherlock felt her silky hair against his jaw, and sighed despite himself. He held her close, bending his head to gently press a kiss to the curve of her neck. "You need to rest," he murmured in her ear.

"Only if you stay with me," she replied, and he was moved to hear her pleading tone. In that moment she seemed so young, so afraid, so unlike the tough, implacable woman he knew. "Please."

"Alright," he capitulated. "But you're going to have to let go first."

"You let go first," she shot back, and he was pleased to hear her usual playful tone returning.

"Now, now it's too early for a fight. Let go and lie down, I'm not going anywhere," he replied, as she sighed and lay down. Sherlock turned to kick his shoes off, and then pulled the covers back to slide in with her. He twined his arms around her waist and pulled her close, so her head rested on his shoulder.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she murmured, but she still didn't close her eyes. Feeling Sherlock's arms around her was a heaven she hadn't wanted to admit she liked, but feeling his warm, skinny body enfolding hers now was a comfort she had always denied herself, and couldn't anymore.

Since that day, the day her mother told her to run, she had never stopped.

But she couldn't, not now. In the space of twenty four hours, so much had changed that it was irrevocable. She couldn't run from this reality, the reality of Sherlock's arms around her, keeping her safe, warm, loved.

Needed.

Even if he was an arrogant toerag at times, and far too interested in her past and Moriarty.

She felt Sherlock's breathing deepen beneath her, and she let hers do the same.

This time she didn't run, and this time no nightmares rose up to torment her.

Not in Sherlock's arms.

* * *

**Well that's that. A little bit of fluff to balance all the smut and the angst. Hope you like :)**


	9. Intervention

The Broken Tango

Chapter 9

* * *

Irene awoke alone the next morning, her empty bed devoid of Sherlock Holmes. Sighing, she pushed the covers back, mentally glad he wasn't here to start interrogating her again.

This morning, she didn't know if she could have remained silent.

In her head, she couldn't help but feel ambivalent about her little nightmare during the night, and the fact that Sherlock found her, comforted her…

Her show of weakness both horrified and unsettled her.

If she had been so weak in front of him, it meant he had got further under her skin than she liked, or wanted him.

But a part of Irene was telling her she didn't have much choice in the matter.

He was there to stay.

* * *

DI Lestrade was just sitting down at his desk to enjoy a steaming cup of coffee when Sherlock Holmes burst through his office door.

"You can't just barge in there, freak!" Sally Donovan yelled from her desk, but Lestrade only sighed and gestured for the younger man to close the door before sitting down.

As Sherlock sat, Lestrade scrutinised the younger man. Outwardly he looked the same, but something had changed.

He almost seemed…more human.

"What can I do for you, Sherlock? If you're looking for new cases we haven't got anything in at the mo-" he began wearily, but Sherlock waved him away with a gesture of his leather gloved hand.

"It's not that. I have a favour to ask," Sherlock murmured, and Lestrade just blinked at him.

"A favour?" he repeated, frowningly.

"Yes, yes a favour, let's not do the repeating game all day Lestrade," Sherlock sighed impatiently, as the Inspector chuckled inwardly.

Now that was more like Sherlock Holmes.

"I want you to give me access to your niece's file,"

"What?" Lestrade spluttered, almost choking on his coffee. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Must we do this repeating thing every time?" he muttered rhetorically, as Lestrade mopped up the spilt coffee with his sleeve.

"Holmes, I can't just give you access to Irene's file. It has confidential on it for a reason," Lestrade shook his head. "And even if I wanted to, I couldn't."

"Why not?" the younger man's eyes narrowed dangerously, and with any lesser man than Lestrade, he might have started cowering.

Or any man not used to Sherlock Holmes.

He sighed, taking a long drink of caffeine, before setting the mug very precisely down on the table.

Sherlock shifted restlessly in his chair.

"Because three years ago her file was one of hundreds destroyed in a fire at one of the archives. Accident, someone left a cigarette somewhere they shouldn't. Never found out who," Lestrade slowly explained, as Sherlock frowned.

"Then just tell me what you know of her past. She's hiding something, and I can't help her unless I know," the younger man finally spoke, and Lestrade was surprised to hear the passion in his voice, as well as…

_Concern_?

Was Holmes actually concerned about his adoptive niece?

Something must have happened to set him on the trail, although what…?

"Has she been having nightmares again?" he asked, pain in his eyes. Sherlock noted it with interest before he nodded in confirmation. "It's always the same one. She calls for her mother, Isobel and her father Edward. We don't know why for sure, and we never caught who did it, but the day after her sixth birthday Irene walked into her parents' bedroom to find them dead, her mother's throat slit and her father beaten to a pulp, messages splashed across the walls in their own blood. We never found the killer, and Irene had no other family, so my sister took her in."

"What were the messages on the walls?" Sherlock asked, as Lestrade shuddered.

"Insults mostly, whore, slut, traitor but there was one other. Loyalty is all and nothing is death. Something obviously came after Irene and her family, but we never found out what or why Irene was spared. She refused to tell the police anything, even the therapists and social workers. Dora and her husband certainly couldn't get anything out of her," Lestrade finished his story, watching the consulting detective closely.

"Which means she knows something about her parents' killer," Sherlock mused aloud, but didn't say the name of Moriarty. He was almost 100% certain it had been Moriarty who had killed Irene's parents, but why?

Was it revenge? The messages certainly seemed to suggest so.

Almost absentmindedly, still thinking, Sherlock stood and made for the door. Lestrade called after him, "Be careful, Sherlock. Irene isn't as strong as she seems, don't hurt her."

With those words ringing in his ears, the door open on the far too curious SOCO department, Sherlock turned back to Lestrade and candidly replied.

"I will never hurt her. I promise you that."

And with that he swept out of the office, leaving a dumbstruck police inspector behind him.

* * *

It was 3:00 pm before he got back to the flat, and he caught the object of his obsession carrying the shopping up the stairs. He walked behind her, making no sound as she walked into the flat, and then into the kitchen.

"Hello Sherlock," she murmured, without turning around. Sherlock grinned, unconsciously, as he stood leaning on the doorframe, watching her.

"How did you know it was me?" he asked, head cocked to the side as he watched her. Of course he already knew how she knew he was there.

"Well for one thing your footsteps are lighter than John's, I could hear the rustling of your clothes even over the shopping, and you have a very distinctive scent," she replied, still not looking at him. She picked up an armful of cans and began putting them away, as Sherlock moved from his spot, catching her arm just as it was fully extended, his long fingers curling around her wrist.

"Irene, we need to talk," he breathed in her ear. Withdrawing her arm, Irene turned her head away.

"We have absolutely nothing to talk about, Sherlock. Nothing whatsoever," she replied coolly, and he could see her shields were back up.

If he wanted to discover the truth at last, he was going to have to fight for it.

Which was fine by him.

"And I say we do," he snapped, blocking her way.

"Get out of the way, Sherlock!" she pushed at his arm forcefully, but he refused to budge. Sighing in frustration, she turned to face him, glaringly.

"You are going to tell me what happened the night your parents died. You are going to tell me everything you know about Moriarty," Sherlock ordered, his voice commanding and steely.

But Irene was having none of it.

"I am not telling you anyth-" she began, but a frustrated yell from the living room stopped them both in their tracks, looking towards the door with wide eyes.

John stood there, book in hand. Neither had seen him on the way in, and neither had known he could hear their argument.

Oddly, Sherlock felt like he was a child again, being told off by his father after another fight with Mycroft.

"Do you think you two could just put a sock in it, or better yet, get a bloody room! For the past month I've had to live with you two glaring daggers at each other, sniping like kids for chrissake! Just sort it out before you drive everyone insane," John folded his arms during his tirade, glaring at his two flatmates.

Irene turned away, about to leave when Sherlock grabbed her arm, forcing her back to him, accompanied by John's shout of "Come back, we are going to sort this out once and for all!"

"Fine!" Irene shouted, snatching her arm away from Sherlock's grip, moving to the other side of the table, putting distance between the two of them. She was ambivalent enough without standing so close to the object of her thoughts right then.

"Fine," Sherlock repeated grumpily, folding his arms and matching her glare while John sighed wearily. Suddenly he froze, as Sherlock's movement exposed a shiny red mark on his neck. Glancing surreptitiously at Irene he saw an identical one just above her carotid artery.

Then he decided he didn't want to know.

"Geniuses," he muttered, at which both Irene and Sherlock corrected him, "Genii."

"Whatever," John shot back. "Now whatever seems to be the problem, we are going to sort this out, one at a time. Irene why don't we start with you?"

"Oh start with me, shall we?" she shook her head, hands balling into fists. "Fine. My problem is six foot, black-haired and standing right in front of me, intent on driving me insane!"

"Oh that's rich coming from you, Irene," Sherlock exploded angrily, and John was shocked by the level of emotion now pouring out of his friend as he leant forward on the table, hands balled into fists. "Ever since you got here all you have done is drive me mad. You're always there, in here," he pointed at his curly head. "Stubborn and infuriating beyond belief-"

"What because you can't tell everything about me from one glance? Because I am the one person who doesn't let you into their head? What gives you the right to think you can just rummage through my life like it's a goddamn book, and then throw it away like it doesn't matter? Yeah, I can definitely see the sociopath now!" Irene yelled, making the reciprocal move, so her enraged face was only inches away from Sherlock's now.

* * *

John could see he had lost complete control of the situation, but their voices just rose and rose, venting all their frustration and tension on each other, and he wondered again why he shared a flat with one high-functioning sociopath, and a borderline sociopath.

What happened next only reinforced that fact.

"I despise your stubbornness!"

"I despise your arrogance! You're the most conceited, ruthless, heartless, diabolical bast-" Irene's insult was cut off by the fact that Sherlock reached across the table, threaded his fingers into the loose hair at her nape and dragged her lips to his.

After one shocked second, Irene reciprocated hungrily, as John felt winded.

Literally, like he had been punched in the gut at the sight of his two flatmates snogging the faces of each other, like they were arguing through their mouths now, instead of through words.

Who'd a thought it: cold, asexual, collected Sherlock, and distant, proud Irene?

He continued to watch through wide eyes as Sherlock dragged Irene across the table, knocking shopping and lab equipment everywhere in the process, and into his arms.

"Right, um," John cleared his throat, but neither took any notice. They were sociopaths after all. "I'll just give you…some, er, privacy."

He backed away, out of the kitchenette and into the front room, collapsing into a chair.

A second later Sherlock's bedroom door slammed shut, and John laughed nervously.

"That's one way of sorting it out," he giggled, just as Mrs Hudson knocked on the door.

"Hello dear," the kind old lady murmured, wandering into the kitchen with a bag before stopping in horror at the mess on the table and floor. "Oh that boy leaves such a mess!"

Groaning, John hid his face in his hands, as a particularly loud bang came from Sherlock's room.

"I am definitely going to need more therapy after this," he muttered under his breath.

* * *

**Ok more soon!**

**Yeah about that last chapter, I can kind of see why it's not quite in character, but I personally feel, especially as this is set between the Blind Banker and the Great Game, that it's not so unbelievable, Sherlock showing concern and affection. After all, he certainly shows both for John in the last two stories.**

**Anyway, I'll be addressing those issues within the next couple of chapters. :)**


	10. No More Pretending

The Broken Tango

**Warning: do I really need to? Oh well, may as well. Smut, lots of smut ;P**

Chapter 10

* * *

Irene gasped when she felt her back hit the unforgiving surface of Sherlock's door, barely able to get her breath back before the reason why she was currently crushed against a door kissed her again, almost viciously.

She kissed him back with as much hunger and violence, pulling on his curls, as he rolled his hips into hers, making her cry out. She clawed at the buttons holding the collar of his shirt closed, wrenching her lips from his to hungrily devour the reddened skin. Sherlock gasped, his hands braced on the door either side of her, neck arched into her kiss.

She bit down, and relished his groan of mixed pain and pleasure, after their heated argument in the kitchenette. She felt like she was finally getting her own back.

She should have known, that with Sherlock Holmes, it wouldn't last long.

He slammed her back against the door, pinning her wrists to it with one of his hands, as he kissed her again, tongue taunting hers mercilessly.

Irene groaned, struggling against his grip as that insatiable need began to build again, but he refused to let her, his free hand splayed over her jaw. He broke the kiss, although their lips still brushed, neither wanting to break the contact between them.

Sherlock could feel every breath in her body, every pounding contraction of her heart, as he looked down into her quicksilver eyes.

If they crossed this line, there would be no going back. His obsession with her would never end, no matter whether he discovered the truth about her past or not.

Maybe they had crossed the line long ago, but had been too blind to see it.

He could see the same thoughts in her mind, through those all-too expressive eyes.

He couldn't have resisted the invitation in them if he'd tried.

* * *

He lowered his head to hers, not bothering to ask permission or to give her a chance to back away. He explored the warm cavern of her mouth devotedly, until she was like soft putty in his arms, hands hanging limp in his grasp. He pulled her away from the door, and towards his bed, throwing her onto it. She levered herself up onto her elbows, breathing shallowly, eyes on fire and fixed on his, as he slowly stalked towards her, steadily undoing the buttons of his shirt, before throwing it away negligently.

He crawled over her on hands and knees, every inch a predator unleashed, looking down at her as her trembling hands rose to his pectorals, tracing the thinly defined muscles before splaying over his heart. The feel of her burning hands on his skin, that simple touch invested with so much emotion, wiped Sherlock's mind of all rationale as she stretched up towards him, offering her lips.

Irene moaned in pleasure when he kissed her, loving every inch of the slender, yet powerful body covering hers, as she explored eagerly. Her hands glided over his back, down his spine, to the small hollow just above the waistband of his suit trousers. He groaned into her mouth, sliding his hands into her hair before pulling it sharply, forcing her head to arch back to alleviate the pressure on her neck. The movement also dragged her lips from under his, pressing her body up into his. His lips glided over her chin and onto her throat, laying a trail of kisses down her neck, relishing the tangible rush in blood pressure, where her pulse beat under his tongue.

Time passed in a haze of need and passion, as clothes were discarded hastily, and bodies caressed covetously.

Irene could barely think beyond the near frantic state he'd pushed her into, twining her legs around his just so he couldn't leave her, clinging to him when he kissed her, only to flop back when he once again laid a trail of kisses down her neck, continuing on over her body, taking the peak of one breast into his mouth until she cried out, before nuzzling his way down her stomach.

As he had done once before, he laved and suckled her navel, her thighs thrown over his shoulders. He glanced up at her, and behind the bestial haze in his eyes, she glimpsed a familiar twinkle of mischief, before looking down at his prey, as she tensed expectantly, hoping he was going to do what she thought he would.

He did.

As in all things he did, he was thorough and he missed nothing, tracking her state by the moans and whimpers escaping from her lips, until neither he nor she could take anymore.

Irene hated begging, she really did. But the plea which escaped from her lips was inevitable. "Sherlock, please…"

He surged over her without hesitation, kissing her urgently, his lips tasting of her. She gasped when she felt him thrust into her, without preamble or thought, just the irresistible need to feel her body surrender to his, her fingernails clinging to his back.

The pain grounded him, focussed his mind so he could set a rhythm, relentless, steady almost viciously torturing for both him and her, working out the frustration of the past month, emotional, sexual and personal.

It had been there between them from the start, this tension, this gravity pulling them together. Only now were they accepting it.

Skin to skin contact had never felt so profound, so incredible to Sherlock. As he withdrew and then returned to the warm, welcoming haven of her body, he looked down on Irene, on the red marks of his passion already blooming on her body, and felt the same thrill he felt when solving a case, but only ten times better.

Maybe, just maybe something else could matter to him as much as his work.

Maybe, just maybe that something else, or rather someone else was lying under him, hips lifting in time with his, his name a breathless moan on her lips.

He felt her body begin to contract, the onset of orgasm, and fought off his own just long enough to see her cry out, bliss flooding her face.

She looked like a Botticelli angel in the presence of the Divine, as she gazed up at him, while he groaned, letting everything go as he closed his eyes and leant his forehead on hers.

* * *

Irene had never felt this peaceful, never this languid after sex. She'd had a fair few lovers, nothing serious, but no one had managed to make her feel like this.

They were currently sprawled in Sherlock's bed, Irene in his arms, her head on his chest so she could his steady heartbeat thundering against her ear.

She closed her eyes and savoured the sound, savoured the feel of his arms around her as the events of the past hour dawned on her.

With this one impulsive act, she had put her trust in Sherlock Holmes, had given in to all she really felt for him beneath the anger and the frustration.

She sighed, wearily. She was so tired of running, and Sherlock's comment before they had collapsed in sated exhaustion still rang in her ears.

"_Wherever you run, I'll always be there to catch you,"_

She could feel him now, slender fingers which had pleasured her and now knew every inch of her so well, tracing the line of her tattoo in the small of her back. So he wasn't asleep either.

Taking a deep breath, pushing down every instinct which told her to shut up, she opened her mouth.

"Moriarty killed my parents."

Sherlock had been drifting in a mental sea of bliss until she said that. Within seconds his mind awoke, stretching like a hunting cat in the sun, alert and wary.

He continued to stroke her back and hair, relishing the differing textures beneath his fingers. He had never understood why people would describe hair and skin as feeling like silk and satin; one was a mass of fibres which held no chemical compositional similarities to silk and the other was a series of layers, interspersed with nerves and muscles and blood.

But now, having Irene's hair and skin under his hands, he could understand why, and for now that was enough, even though his post-coital fatigue had worn off ten minutes before. He waited for her to continue, sensing it was the best way. She sighed heavily, and he held her tightly, as if he could lend her his strength through physical contact.

"It was my sixth birthday. I was playing in the garden, when my mother came out, and even then I knew something was wrong," she began, stiltedly.

"You were a child prodigy," Sherlock interjected with a soft smile, now tracing the rise of her shoulder with his fingertips.

"I was," she agreed, with just a touch of humour. "She took me up to my bedroom, and made me play a game of Simon Says, making me pack my schoolbag and then told me that when she told me to run, I had to run and not look back. That night…" she faltered, and Sherlock held her closer, sensing her fight not to break down. Eventually, she continued, quietly but strongly. "That night she came into my room, and told me to run. Our house had a conservatory under my room, so I could slide onto the roof and climb down the drainpipe. I ran across the garden and through the gate into next door's garden, hiding in their shed. When morning came, I went back to the house, and…found my parents, murdered. My mother, with her throat slit, and my father beaten to death. Blood covered the walls, and those words…the message _he_ left behind. Loyalty is all and nothing is death."

"How do you know it was Moriarty?" Sherlock asked gently, for once. He could hear the pain in her voice, feel her tension and it only increased the protectiveness he now felt towards her, along with the tight knot in his chest.

"We'd gone into hiding, under a false name. I know it was him, knew he wouldn't stop until we were dead, I just didn't know why," she replied, in a whisper. Sherlock frowned momentarily, when he felt her shiver of fear.

"He's the reason you pushed your foster parents away, wasn't it?" he murmured, as her head shot up. "It wasn't just their desire to dictate your life that caused the rift, was it? You used that to push them away even further, so Moriarty wouldn't be tempted to go after them."

"You are very annoying, Sherlock," she replied, narrowing her eyes. He rolled his, despite grinning mischievously.

"Thank you," he muttered, pleased when she smirked amusedly, some of the sadness lifting from her eyes.

"And smug. Suppose that comes from being a high-functioning sociopath?" she shot back, with a tilt of her head, her eyes now shining beadily.

"Hark whose talking. You're quite the sociopath yourself," he retorted, still lazily stroking her back. Irene's eyes narrowed.

"Borderline," she muttered, looking away.

"Considerably more than borderline, after our little display in the kitchen. Poor John will probably need more therapy after that," Sherlock replied lazily, making Irene laugh.

"The look on his face…we're nightmares aren't we?" she asked rhetorically, before meeting his eyes again. "Anything else you want to know while you're at it?"

"Yes," he replied, dropping his hand back to her tattoo. "Two questions. One: How did you get involved with the Fujiwaras?"

"When I was a teenager, I was your typical one. I was angry and rebellious, and even more determined to drive a wedge between my foster parents and I. That's when I started street dancing. I'd already received formal training in classical dance, ballroom and Latin, but when I saw some kids dancing on the street, I couldn't resist plus it really pissed my dance teacher off," she added with an impish grin, making Sherlock laugh. "Running away to clubs and things was just another way to rebel, until I met Riki. He used to bet on me in dance battles and things, but then it started to get dangerous. He tried to rope me into selling drugs, and tried to come onto me but by then I was getting ready to go to Oxford. I just disappeared, especially as no one knew my real name and I had always made sure Riki learnt not to set men tailing me. Your second question?"

"Two: the triquetra on your back?"

"Just a whim," she shrugged. "I got very drunk in university. I guess I liked the idea of three people, united as one."

Sherlock considered that as Irene subsided back into his arms, using his chest as a pillow, his brow puckered slightly.

"Come and work with me and John," he abruptly said, prompting Irene to look up at him in shock. "I mean it. It makes sense, especially with our new…relationship."

Irene's face turned calculating, then she smirked as she raised herself up on her hands and knees, over him, and jut brushed her lips over his.

"What new relationship? I could just walk out that door and pretend like this never happened…" she trailed off, as Sherlock growled and flipped her over onto her back, pinning her hands to the mattress.

"You couldn't pretend, not now," he growled against her lips, feeling his body stir again.

"Says who?" she asked archly, one brow rising arrogantly. Resisting the urge to kiss that smug grin off her face, Sherlock returned it with one of his own, a hint of the predator in him beginning to bleed through, making her shiver.

"Your pulse says otherwise," he murmured, turning her wrist so she could see where his fingers were clamped over her pulse, which was skyrocketing, damn him!

"You're the cockiest consulting detective in the world, for sure," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "Go on, what else tells you I couldn't pretend?"

"Well that reflexive shiver a minute ago," he replied softly, very carefully pressing his hips to hers, making her shiver again. "And that one. The fact that your pupils are dilated, your skin flushed and dewed, your breathing has quickened and this of course…"

He trailed his fingers down her body, until she shuddered and arched, despite still glaring up at him.

"All that points to my desiring you now, not whether I could pretend I don't once out of this room," she breathed cockily, provocatively as Sherlock teased and explored her.

Then he'd just have to make sure she never left this room.

"You're not running away that easily, Irene Adler. Not anymore," he growled, lowering his lips to her.

* * *

They met greedily, already needing another fix of each other, their shared obsession now an addiction as well. Irene threaded her fingers into Sherlock's mussed, raven hair, pulling him down to her, craving the feel of his body against hers as their tongues duelled urgently.

In truth both knew they couldn't pretend anymore. They'd crossed the line long ago, and neither wanted to go back.

And maybe, just maybe Irene could finally stop running. What was the point with the world's only consulting detective there to catch you?


	11. A Jealous Game

The Broken Tango

**I wasn't originally going to do this, but the idea of a jealous Molly is too good to pass up.**

Chapter 11

* * *

John Watson very carefully did not look at Sherlock when he finally emerged from his bedroom the next morning. He most definitely did not look at the clearly hand-dishevelled hair, or the lazy way he moved.

He absolutely did not look at the red marks littering Sherlock's neck and collarbone.

He busied himself with making the tea, head down and eyes on the mugs, very precisely placing a tea bag in each, before Sherlock's exasperated snort made him turn around.

"You can say it, you know," the detective muttered, eying John with not a little bit of amusement.

"Say? Say what, I'm not going to say anything," John babbled, turning back to the tea just as Sherlock stretched and winced. "Good night?"

And with that John couldn't help but burst into fits of laughter, clutching the tabletop for support, while Sherlock glared at him.

"Very funny, John. Highly amusing," he rolled his eyes, reaching for the tea while John collected himself. "Now once you've regained your maturity, I want to…ask your advice."

That shut John up.

"Excuse me? Did I just hear the great Sherlock Holmes ask for advice? Where's my phone I need to record this as evidence," John sniggered, eying his friend teasingly. Sherlock glared at him, elegant hands wrapped around the mug.

"Oh do shut up, John. This early in the morning your face might crack," he sighed wearily, which made John chuckle even more.

"Must have been a good night if that's the best you can come up with," he retorted, before sobering. "What do you want to ask me?"

Sherlock inhaled heavily, eyes fixed on the tea in front of him. "How do you date a woman?"

* * *

Irene stirred wearily, a highly pleasant ache in her muscles. She lifted her head from the pillow, fogged brain dazedly trying to work out why she was feeling so good and so achy at the same time.

She glanced towards the beam of light rudely poking through the blue curtains-?

Then she realised several key points.

One, she was lying on her front, naked. Two, she was not in her bedroom, she was in Sherlock's.

Three, it was now nine o clock in the morning, the morning after their little fight, and four; the reason she was aching was because she had spent a good majority of the last 17 hours being driven absolutely bloody insane by Sherlock Holmes.

And driving him beyond the limits of what little sanity he possessed, a thought which caused her to smirk. Sitting up gingerly, she looked around for her clothes, strewn haphazardly across the floor.

She grabbed them, sliding into them, wincing as strained muscles ached even more. She was going to kill Sherlock, when she saw him. After snogging him senseless of course.

Groaning, she wandered out into the hallway, knowing full well her hair was a complete mess, and she had several love bites across her neck. She was pretty sure she had left the same on Sherlock's neck too.

She could hear the boys talking in the kitchen, and stopped for moment to savour the feeling of contentment which had risen at the sight of her two boys, Sherlock and John, one her now lover, the other a close friend.

* * *

"Morning," she called softly, stepping into the kitchenette. "Any tea?"

"Yeah, sure," John piped up, raising his eyes to her face then hurriedly looking away. Irene nearly laughed. "It's in the kettle."

Sherlock didn't look at her once during the whole exchange, but she didn't care.

She knew what he was up to, and she could play that game too.

Pouring some tea into her mug, she sat back down, cupping her fingers around the warmth and very languorously taking a sip, sensing _his_ gaze on her, on her neck as she swallowed.

She sits back a little too hard, and winces at muscles complaining, as she glances at Sherlock, just in time to see a self-satisfied grin fade from his lips, and resists the urge to glare, the smug git!

Suddenly the phone next to Sherlock vibrated, the light-up screen telling the world he had a call.

He snatched it up, and Irene couldn't help but smile back at Sherlock's boyish grin of anticipation.

"We've been summoned," he murmured, jumping up to rush to his room, Irene going to hers at a slightly slower pace, leaving John at the kitchen table, jaw hanging.

The new case quickly took them from the crime scene in an old rundown warehouse in the Docklands, back to St Barts' labs.

Apart from the odd smouldering glance, neither Sherlock nor Irene had mentioned the events of the previous night, but the tension between them was making John edgy.

It felt like a thunderstorm, building and building until something was going to have to set it off.

* * *

Molly Hooper was quite happily poring over her work in one of the pathology labs when Sherlock and John barged in. She straightened to greet them with her usual sunny, infatuated smile when one of the most dangerous and beautiful women she had ever seen outside of a movie screen walked in behind them.

She moved with the grace of a panther, with the power and dangerous allure to match, her perfectly curvy yet toned body shown to advantage in the tailored black leather overcoat she wore, swirling around her ankles like a cape. Molly could just about glimpse motorcycle boots and a black lace vest underneath the coat, and what looked like a diamond in her navel. The woman's long brown hair was lustrous and freely waving down her back, her oval face clear of any makeup.

She didn't need it, she was naturally beautiful. And sexy.

Molly averted her eyes in envy, catching Sherlock's glance towards the stranger, and felt jealousy take hold.

He was looking at her like he wanted to throw her on the lab counter and shag her brains out. Something Molly had fantasised about for weeks.

And judging by the copious amounts of love bites on her neck, he had done too.

The woman came forward, holding out her hand with the kind of austere grace and aloofness that Molly associated with Sherlock.

"Irene Adler, you must be Molly Hooper," she smiled, and it was like watching a predator smile just before it eats you. Molly mumbled a noncommittal greeting, gripping her hand for a moment, before turning back to Sherlock and John.

Irene glanced amusedly at the mousey-haired girl who had watched her with envy in her eyes, and pure adoration at Sherlock. Oh poor Molly.

Glancing over the girl, she noted everything she saw.

From the slight cuts on her hand, she had a cat, so most likely lived alone. Young, in her early twenties, bright, again an Oxbridge accent like her own, although Irene guessed Cambridge rather than Oxford, and a pathologist.

She also guessed Molly wasn't usually this awkward, except around Sherlock. Which was why, no doubt, Molly was shooting her death glares.

* * *

Molly watched moodily as the trio set to work, Sherlock at the microscope, Irene conducting a test using her forensic knowledge and John updating Lestrade on developments. Sherlock had removed his coat but not his scarf, and she really didn't want to think why.

"Molly?" Sherlock suddenly said her name, and the girl jumped. "Could you help me for a moment?"

Unable to quell the rising feeling of satisfaction that he'd chosen _her_ to help him, not his glamorous and dangerously alluring lady friend, Molly really didn't want to think of her as his _girlfriend_, she scurried to his side with a bright smile. After a few minutes silently taking readings, Sherlock smiled at her warmly.

"Are you wearing lipstick again, Molly? It's very becoming," he murmured, before turning back to his work. Shining now, Molly darted a glance at Irene, who was smirking into her microscope.

Apparently unruffled.

Maybe she'd got it wrong. Maybe Irene wasn't with Sherlock after all, maybe she was just a friend…

Almost bouncing with hope now, Molly cheerfully asked, "Anyone for coffee?"

* * *

"You're in love with him, aren't you?" Irene's smooth, refined voice made Molly jump out of her skin in the tiny kitchen area outside the labs. One of the mugs nearly hit the floor, but Irene stooped to catch it in time, smoothly holding it out to Molly.

"Thanks," Molly took it grudgingly, "And that's none of your business."

"I suppose not," Irene murmured, sighing. "But you're not in love with him, not really."

"How the hell can you know that?" Molly replied angrily, looking down at the mugs with tears in her eyes. Always the one, the mouse in the corner who gets used and ignored. How could beautiful, sexy Irene Adler know a damn thing about this?

"Because I can see it in the way you smile at him, the way you jump to help him, but at the end of it all, you don't love _him_, not really. You're in love with the idea of him, not what he really is," Irene replied gently.

"I think I know what he really is a bit more than you, thank you very much," Molly snapped, angrily.

"I doubt it," Irene replied, still serene and cool, annoying Molly even more. This woman had no right to lecture her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to come out this way."

At the sadness in her voice, Molly turned to her, surprised.

"Molly, can you really see Sherlock taking you for coffee, going to dinner? Sleeping in on a Sunday, going for walks in the park together? That's what you want, isn't it?" Irene asked gently, watching Molly carefully.

The girl was pretty, with her long hair tied back in a ponytail, and slight traces of makeup. She was tiny, dressed in black trousers and a plain jumper underneath her lab coat. She was sweet, pure, innocent.

In all honesty, she wouldn't know what to do with Sherlock, nor he with her.

Molly was unspeaking, not moving, because she could see a grain of truth in Irene's words. No matter how she strained her mind, imagining Sherlock doing anything as mundane as that, what she really wanted, was almost laughable.

She was too ordinary to ever rival a beautiful, extraordinary woman like Irene.

"Molly, you deserve so much better than Sherlock. Truly," Irene continued softly, trying to be kind. She'd seen Sherlock flirting with her, and she thought it cruel. At the end of the day, Sherlock had no interest in Molly, and never would.

"You're intelligent and beautiful and sweet. Don't long for something which would only destroy you."

"Why? Because I'm ordinary?" Molly replied in a small voice, struggling to hold back tears.

"Exactly, and it's the most wonderful thing to be, Molly. To be ordinary, to be normal is a blessing. Find a man that can love you, freely and wholly. Love is not something Sherlock can give you," Irene finished, taking a mug of coffee and turning to leave.

"Wait!" Molly called, feeling slightly less depressed as she regarded the woman in front of her. She was beautiful and clever, like Sherlock, but she sensed there was a sadness in her, and that same brand of insanity Sherlock possessed, which meant she knew what it was like to be extraordinary.

To be so clever you could see everything, see its place in the order of things, see how events twisted and twined around it, to feel the ridicule and fear of mere mortals, to be ostracised and avoided as if you carried the plague, to invite obsession and adoration without their fans knowing the depth of them, knowing what darkness lay beneath.

The difference was that Irene cared more than Sherlock.

Molly shivered.

"You love him, don't you?" she asked, feeling pity now for Irene. She was caught in the same trap as Molly was, but in much deeper. Unlike Molly, she saw all the darkness within Sherlock, and still loved what she saw, unable to break free.

"Move on, Molly," Irene was glad she had her back to Molly, so the young woman couldn't see the pain and the uncertainty in her eyes. "Find a man who can take you for long walks in the park on a Sunday, and all those wonderful, ordinary things. You deserve it."

And with that, she left the kitchen and a stunned, oddly buoyed Molly behind.

* * *

As she walked back to the lab, Irene mused on what she had said to Molly, and what Molly had asked her.

Was she in love with Sherlock?

Analysing how she felt even now, she noted the quickening in her pulse when she thought about him, how easily she could summon up his mental image, the depth of accuracy with which she could remember the taste of his lips, the sound of his voice.

The fact that a little knot in her chest formed whenever they were apart, a little voice urging her to go back to his side.

Telling her she belonged there.

It was dangerous, oh so dangerous to do this. Sherlock was many things, and one of them was passionate, but he did not love.

It had been one of the first things she'd deduced about him. Sherlock did not possess the capacity to love, or even to care at times.

He did for a few select people, Mrs Hudson, John, Lestrade, Mycroft to a grudging degree, and even her. It felt good to be in that select circle, but she didn't know how long it would last.

So despite what her heart was telling, she would not fall in love with Sherlock Holmes. What existed between them now, while it felt like it would last forever, would fade eventually.

That didn't mean she would cut her nose off to spite her face. No, she would take what she would get.

_Which almost makes me as pitiable as poor Molly…_

The fact remained that Irene didn't know how long it would be before the house of cards which was her life would tumble down, so she would take every shred of physical affection she could get from a man she was obsessed with.

Before Moriarty ruined everything.

* * *

Sherlock looked up as Molly re-entered the room, carrying their coffees, but no sign of Irene. He frowned, before focussing on his work again but that little niggle, that hard knot forming in his chest at her prolonged absence was refusing to go away.

He didn't like being away from her, especially after last night, or was it technically this morning? But the point remained that he couldn't concentrate as well anymore when she wasn't there, by his side, or at least in the same room as he.

Sighing, he lifted his eyes from the microscope, blinking away the slight ache in his eyes, and sipped the frankly dreadful coffee Molly had left beside him. The girl had a distracted look in her eyes, obviously thinking about something else.

Not about him, he hoped. He used her infatuation with him, and felt no qualms in doing so really, but he didn't want it getting out of hand. He'd already had to get out of enough date requests from Molly to last him a lifetime. He'd only been flirting with her that morning, to try to provoke Irene, who was proving as good at this new game of theirs as he was.

At last, unable to bear it anymore, he made his excuses to John and Molly, and escaped.

He really hoped that twinkle in John's annoying smug eye was just an irritation, nothing more.

* * *

As Sherlock rounded the corner of the corridor, he quickly realised Irene was not just good at their game, she was an expert player.

She stood with a cup of coffee in her hand, chatting animatedly with a dark-haired man, in his thirties.

Short, slight traces of a North London accent, close-cut black hair, long, mobile fingers.

A tiny paunch, which would indicate a sedentary lifestyle and a little too much alcohol, but the man was reasonably good-looking.

And looking far too interested in Irene for Sherlock's liking.

Irene laughed, tipping her head back, and Sherlock could almost see her new friend's eyes lingering on her lips, drifting down to the line of her lace vest.

Not because he was doing the exact same thing, of course.

He had to admit, this was making him more jealous than Molly did Irene.

"Ah, Sherlock, there you are," Irene suddenly noticed him with a coy smile, as he glared at her. "This is Jim. Apparently works in IT upstairs."

Sherlock took one look at him, and muttered, "Gay."

"Sorry, what?" Jim from IT asked, face furrowed in confusion.

"Nothing. Hi," Sherlock muttered noncommittally, eyes fixed on Irene's, trying to communicate via his eyes exactly how much trouble she was in. "Irene, can I speak to you? Alone?"

Irene smirked at the order hidden beneath the question marks in that sentence, turning to Jim, her own puppet.

"Sure. It was nice talking to you, Jim," she murmured, batting her eyelashes while surreptitiously sliding her empty coffee cup into his hands.

"Yeah, it was nice to meet you," Jim murmured, obviously dumbstruck, not noticing the ceramic she'd pushed into his hands, as Irene turned away.

* * *

Sherlock waited until they were round the corner before grasping her arm and dragging her into a storage room. The instant the door closed, he slid the bolt across and faced Irene.

"Something wrong, dear?" she asked challengingly, arms folded, head tilted to the side.

"Enjoy throwing yourself at random men?" Sherlock retorted cuttingly, but Irene didn't even bat an eyelid.

"Oh dear, did our little game backfire on poor little Sherlock? Stringing poor Molly on like that, shame on you," she fired back mockingly, pretending to frown as he stalked towards her. She walked backwards until she felt a counter jut into her back, suppressing a shiver at the rising flames in Sherlock's icy eyes, melting the coldness.

"I am repentant," Sherlock replied, teasingly now as he felt her warmth reach for him. "Jealousy is always a most expedient way of arousing desire, in my experience. Did I make you jealous?" he asked, as she stretched back, away from him, her elbows leaning on the counter. He pulled her closer, body to body, and felt that knot in his chest dissolve now she was with him again. By the hitch in her breathing, she wasn't exactly opposed to the arrangement either.

"If you ever do that again, then I can guarantee you won't be getting any tonight," she breathed, one brow cocked as she shifted against him provokingly. He inhaled through gritted teeth, wondering how best to knock that knowingly smug grin off her lips, as he pressed her back against the counter.

"Now that is just cruel, Irene," he replied, lowering his lips to hers. The moment their lips touched, urgency broke over them like a tidal wave, sweeping them away. Irene let Sherlock slide her coat from her shoulders, before pulling her hungrily against his body. Their little game of torture had made both of them hungry for the other, as Irene's hands slid into Sherlock's hair, taunting him with her tongue. In retaliation, Sherlock's arms tightened around her waist, and lifted her against him.

Irene took the hint, letting him take her weight until she felt the surface of the counter underneath her legs. Now she was on a level with him, Sherlock standing between her splayed legs, she could kiss him harder, exploring his mouth as he did hers, eliciting a moan from him as she tugged on his curls. He submitted to the pressure, arching his neck back as she tore his scarf away with her free hand and licked teasingly at one red mark.

"Dear, dear you should take more care shaving, Sherlock. What would John think?" she whispered teasingly against his neck as he shuddered.

"Let him think what he likes," Sherlock growled, hauling her lips back up to his, hands already searching beneath her clothes, sliding up her spine beneath her vest. He broke from her lips to just fleetingly nuzzle her breast through her vest, before bending her back over the counter, suckling the tender skin of her abdomen. There were more marks from his hungry hands and lips, after last night, down here and he traced them with his tongue, soothing the angry red skin, as Irene moaned above him.

Sherlock was just mentally debating the logistics of intercourse on a storage counter when his phone beeped in his pocket, making him sigh and draw back.

It was a text from John.

**Where r u? Don't make me come and find u!**

Sherlock sighed heavily, knowing he should get back to work. But he didn't want, not when his body was urging him to reclaim _his_ Irene after her little flirting session, her all too perceptive grey eyes watching him intently.

He really didn't want her to know the primal thoughts he had about her, because they just weren't him. He was Sherlock Holmes.

But he was also changed, intrinsically, as much as he might wish to deny it. He couldn't push these feelings away, because to do so would be to push Irene away. And that he definitely couldn't do.

"We'd better get back to the lab, before John sends a search party," Sherlock managed to ground out, his voice hoarse from desire and suppressed need. Disappointment flared in Irene's eyes, but faded as she nodded and hopped down from the counter. He helped her put her coat back on, his hands lingering on the swell of her shoulders, as he bent his head, his lips brushing the whorl of her ear when she turned her head slightly to him. "We'll continue this later."

"Later," Irene breathed, holding all the tone of a promise, as he bent his head and pressed an all too brief kiss to her neck, a kiss which left them shaking from the desire rising between them.

With deep breaths, they suppressed it and walked back to the labs.


	12. A First Time For Everything

The Broken Tango

Chapter 12

* * *

Irene collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table four hours later, tired but exhilarated as John and Sherlock settled into chairs in the living room. They had just got back from the case, successfully wrapped up.

Irene could never have imagined how good it felt to be doing it, to be solving cases like this alongside Sherlock and John. Sure, that day she met them she had felt a huge surge of satisfaction to have proved the case was a murder, not a suicide, first but it wasn't the same as seeing it through to the end, working as a team.

She flicked a glance at Sherlock, and shared an exhilarated smile, John too busy closing his eyes and playing dead to see.

Suddenly the sound of a phone buzzing interrupted the companionable silence between the trio, as John sighed and flicked his phone open.

A second later he rolled his eyes and grinned.

"I'm going to Sarah's. See you two later," he called over his shoulder, disappearing into his bedroom. Irene watched him go through narrowed eyes, as he and Sherlock exchanged a meaningful glance.

The two men seemed to have a kind of telepathic ability to communicate through their eyes alone, and this masculine communication was indecipherable to Irene.

Men.

Shrugging it off, she leant her head on her arms, closing her eyes.

Her senses stretched and unfurled, like a cat napping in the sun, as she felt Sherlock stand up and walk up behind her, his hands positioned exactly ten centimetres from her arms, leaning over her so his breath washed over the nape of her neck.

"Mmmm," Irene breathed, feeling Sherlock's lips brush aside her hair, softly caressing her skin. She shifted, opening her eyes with a sigh, to indeed find Sherlock's cufflinks by her nose.

"Come on, woman. We're going for dinner," Sherlock whispered in her ear. Smirking, secretly loving that domineering tone, she sat up just enough to stare Sherlock defiantly in the eye over her shoulder.

"Oh, are we? Rather arrogant of you, Sherlock," she replied sarcastically.

"You _must_ be tired if that's the best you can manage, Irene. It is exhilarating isn't it?" he tugged on her earlobe playfully with his teeth, making her inhale sharply. "How did you manage to resist for so long?"

"Can't you deduce that yourself?" Irene retorted teasingly, sitting up into his arms. Sherlock tilted her head back and up to meet his lips, kissing her deeply.

They'd been careful for the entire day since the labs not to touch too often, trying not to heighten the tension lying between them. Now it returned tenfold, testing Sherlock's control, his resolve.

Inwardly shaking, he drew back, panting, mollified to see Irene in no better state.

"Go and get changed," he whispered, letting her up as she glared at him. Regaining his composure, he smiled charmingly, catching hold of her hand and pressing a kiss to her inner wrist.

"Fine, I'm going, I'm going," she muttered, tearing herself away and disappearing to her room. Just as her door closed, John's opened and he cast Sherlock a disapproving glance as he grabbed his leather jacket.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, frowning.

"Sherlock, you're meant to _ask _her on a date, not _tell _her you're going on a date," John explained, slowly like he was talking to a small child.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Sherlock grumbled, good-naturedly. "It worked, didn't it?"

John laughed, shaking his head in fond exasperation.

* * *

John was long gone by the time Irene emerged from her room, carrying her overcoat on her arm. Sherlock sprang up from his seat on the sofa, trying not to let his mouth drop open in a spectacularly embarrassing fashion.

He'd seen Irene at her sexiest, at her most dangerous-looking but the woman walking towards him now was alluring and vulnerably pretty, looking her age for once.

Her lithe figure was shown to its best advantage in black jeans, and a blue satin top, slightly off the shoulder so her milky skin gleamed in the gentle lighting of the living room. Her long hair was loose down her back, framing her face in soft waves, the only jewellery she wore a small silver bracelet.

"Where are we going?" Irene asked, slipping her jacket on and flicking her hair from beneath the collar. Regaining his equilibrium, Sherlock gestured for her to precede him down the stairs, calling to Mrs Hudson that they were going out.

"To a place I know just around the corner, run by an old friend of mine," he told her shortly, closing the front door of 221B Baker Street behind them. The cold winter air hit them like a physical hit to the face. "But first…" Sherlock trailed off, reaching for Irene. She went willingly into his arms, letting him kiss her passionately before drawing back, blinking.

"That was unexpected. Thought you weren't into the whole public-displays-of-affection thing," she breathed, before deciding she really didn't care and kissing him again anyway.

"Come on," Sherlock eventually managed to get out between kisses, a strong urge to just skip dinner and drag her back upstairs becoming steadily stronger if he didn't stop this now.

"Are you sure we can do this without descending into an argument?" Irene asked, jokingly, not quite daring to verbalise what else they might descend into. Sherlock's brow quirked, as he smiled humourlessly.

"We can but try," he replied, offering his arm gallantly if a little mockingly. She glared at him, and he sighed as he took her arm in his, and they walked, still trying to stave off the rising hunger between them.

* * *

Northumberland Road was still crowded and busy at seven o clock, people scurrying to and from the shops and restaurants, black taxis rushing past. Sherlock still had to suppress a reflexive shiver whenever he saw one.

Irene looked up with curiosity as they stopped outside of Angelo's place, the warm lights beckoning. As she stepped through, the heat of the interior washed over her like a bath, after the frigid air of the street.

Immediately, a slightly rotund old man with a grey ponytail bustled across to them, gripping Sherlock's gloved hand warmly.

"Sherlock, good to see you again. Another date?" he asked, now looking at Irene, who stared steadily back. Before Sherlock could answer, he laughed and clapped her shoulder. "Of course it is. Better looking than the last one too."

Glancing between Sherlock and this mad stranger, she couldn't help smirking at the look on Sherlock's face, half exasperated, half aggravated.

"Angelo, you're looking well," he murmured, before ushering Irene forward. "I got Angelo off a murder charge by proving he was halfway across the other side of London at the time," he explained to Irene, who nodded.

"Gave me a new start, this man did. Anything you want, anything at all is on the house, Sherlock," Angelo wrung Sherlock's hand one last time, before gesturing towards a table by the lit window, cosy and private.

Sliding in, Irene thanked Angelo with a smile before turning teasingly to Sherlock.

"'Better looking than your last date,' huh? Do you bring all your dates here?" she asked, loving the slightly ruffled expression on her date's face.

"That was a misunderstanding. I brought John here on a stakeout when we first met and Angelo assumed we were together," he explained, frowning at her repressively while she tried to suppress a laugh.

The mental image of John and Sherlock on a date was just too much.

"Sure it was," Irene rolled her eyes, before picking up her menu.

* * *

An hour later and Irene pushed her plate away, sighing in contentment.

"I could not eat another goddamn thing," she muttered, at which Sherlock just cocked an eyebrow and promptly nicked her half-eaten chocolate soufflé with a shrug. Irene eyed his skinny frame and grunted, "Pig."

"Waste not, want not," Sherlock replied primly, winking at Irene as she rolled her eyes. She sipped her wine delicately, feeling utterly at peace.

"How can men get away with eating like half-starved elephants but women can't? You're all abnormal," she replied quickly.

"No, we just possess a greater metabolism than women. Comes from evolution of the male role of a hunter, while the woman is, evolutionarily speaking, a-" Sherlock explained, before Irene cut him off with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh don't even start with all that evolutionary sexism rubbish," she retorted, her smile teasing. On an impulse, she sat up and grasped his hand over the table. "I utterly enjoyed the case today, Sherlock. I knew how good it felt to-"

"Beat me in deducing that that suicide was, in fact, a murder when we first met?" Sherlock finished for her with a lopsided grin. Irene glared at him.

"I was going to say, how good it felt to do that, but to investigate it, to work out every detail and solve it was just…exhilarating," she sighed, breathlessly. Sherlock gazed at her beauty, at her earnestness and couldn't quite hold back his smile.

He knew how it felt too.

"Well, then you're just going to have to join us for more," he replied, "It's an addiction."

"Yes, it is. But a good one," Irene replied. "Better than rotting my brain away in some boring office job."

"True, very true. Mind you, I can't picture you as a PA or an office girl. Too mouthy for a start," Sherlock commented, with a wicked edge to his smile now. Irene glared at him, before her face transformed, a sensual grin spreading over her lips.

"Well, maybe you can find a use for my mouth, Sherlock," she murmured, leaning back in her seat and shifting under his gaze. He froze when he felt her foot very gently flick his leg, before the pressure increased, tracing a path up his trouser leg with her toes. The contact was fleeting, barely there but it was enough for Sherlock to grit his teeth and glare at Irene.

"Let's play a game. What can you tell about that man over there?" Irene suddenly asked, with a laugh when she saw Sherlock's jaw tense even more as her foot slid over his thigh.

Concentrating through the physical sensations of Irene teasing his leg with her foot beneath the table, trying to fight off his inevitable reaction, Sherlock glanced over at the man Irene was looking at.

He was about forty, well-dressed with a slight paunch and sitting opposite an attractive young woman, blonde and raunchily dressed, in her twenties.

"Got it," Sherlock muttered. "High end City executive, married but in an adulterous relationship with his much younger PA, sitting opposite. Has a penchant for alcohol, but not for exercise hence the excess weigh-"

He shut up abruptly, as Irene had to restrain a laugh.

"Something wrong, Sherlock?" she asked, digging her foot in just a little again, Sherlock's pained breath almost making her fall to the floor, sides splitting with laughter.

Sherlock Holmes, this susceptible, who would have thought it?

"You're treading on very thin ice, Irene," Sherlock growled, his icy eyes now completely focussed on her, dispelling her amusement, as she shivered.

She felt like she was under the gaze of a predator, prowling around his prey before he pounced. Her skin tingled, and her breathing accelerated, eying him warily now.

"Then maybe its time we fall through it," she murmured, withdrawing her foot and slipping it back into its shoe. Sherlock nodded once, brusquely, slipping into his coat and buttoning it up before helping Irene with hers.

She was supremely conscious of his hands lingering on her shoulders for a second too long, possessively.

Sherlock and Irene walked quickly through the streets of London, not stopping, never faltering. Their gloved hands clung to each other, the only contact they dared to allow themselves, until they reached the blessedly dark hallway of 221B, Baker Street.

* * *

Irene barely registered the door closing behind her, before she had been shoved against the wall and Sherlock's lips had descended on her own. His leather gloves cupped her face, holding her still as he pressed against her. She gasped into his mouth, hands looped around his waist as they hungrily kissed.

Sherlock released her face to manhandle her coat from her, before shrugging his own off impatiently, reaching for her. He forcefully pulled her against him, needing to feel her body against his own, as she came willingly, more than ready to pay the price of her teasing.

For the collected, composed Sherlock it was the closest he had ever come to losing control.

They stumbled upstairs, still absorbed in each other, hands touching, caressing, claiming without thought or conscious direction, the quiet, still air of the flat disturbed by their gasps and moans.

Sherlock released her long enough to shut his bedroom door, turning around to find her already on the bed, lying back with an expectant smile and lust-filled eyes.

He ripped off his shirt, uncaring that he heard buttons fly off in some unknown direction, just needing her hands on his skin, and to feel hers in turn. Her hands glided over him, passionately possessive as he kissed her deeply, urgently taking all she would give and demanding more.

Irene gave it, arching beneath him as she clawed at his remaining clothes, doing absolutely nothing to help him do the same to hers, as she greedily explored and caressed all she wished was hers.

On the thought, she rolled them over, straddling his hips as she sank onto him, before lowering her lips back to his. His hands spasmed in her hair, clutching her to him as they gasped and moaned in concert, their bodies intent on driving what little sanity remained to them from their minds.

Where the words came from, Sherlock would never know, mentally cursing his vulnerability. "Never leave me," he growled out, against her lips as they began that now familiar giddy ride to heaven.

Surprised, adrift on a storm-tossed sea of emotion and building need, Irene could only reply, "As long as I never have to, I never will."

Sherlock dragged her lips back to his, unsure if he wanted to rip those words back so they never existed, or to let them remain. The vulnerability he felt was cold and unwelcome, and for the first time in his life, as he felt Irene cry out in ecstasy above him, he didn't know what to do.

Faced with the depth of his need, he was lost and afraid, for the first time.

And that thought echoed in his head as he gave in to his own release, letting Irene's body pleasure him into oblivion before they collapsed into each other's arms.

All he knew, for certain, was that he could never lose her. He supposed there was always a first time for everything.


	13. A Goodbye Kiss

The Broken Tango

Chapter 13

* * *

Irene stirred sleepily, in Sherlock's arms, the next morning, shifting languidly.

"A girl could get far too used to this," she purred, raising her head to meet Sherlock's lazy, blue-eyed gaze.

His fingers very gently traced her shoulder, then caressed her hair as she shifted and arched under his fingers, much like the cat that had got the cream.

"Last night…" Sherlock began uncertainly, tailing off before he forged ahead determinedly. "Last night, you said you would never leave me, unless you had to. What did you mean?"

Irene froze when she heard those words, sensed the trap she was about to fall into, threatening to shatter their peaceful world. She looked up and met his uncompromising gaze, before sitting up, clutching the bed sheet to her as if clinging to a lifeline.

"Exactly what I meant," she murmured. "Unless I have to, I won't ever leave you."

Sherlock sat up, his quick mind already thinking over her words carefully albeit with a sense of panic he utterly despised.

The truth dawned like the sun slowly rising in the wintry sky outside.

"You haven't told me everything about your past, have you?" he asked rhetorically, expecting an angry reply, or an outright fight. Irene turned to him hesitantly, her face achingly vulnerable and in pain, as she traced his face with her fingers.

"I will tell you, I just…I need time," she murmured, before kissing him ever-so-gently, a tender passion which threatened to tip him back over the edge.

He sighed, pulling her into his arms, relishing her warm weight against his body. He forced himself to accept her words, knowing full well the barriers she had built over the years, the impenetrable walls only he had ever gotten through. It would take time for her to let them down fully, even for him, and let him know all.

He lowered her back to the bed, beneath him this time, as their kiss continued, languid and lazy in the early morning, the sounds of the traffic outside merging with birdsong.

* * *

Abruptly their kiss was interrupted by the sound of John knocking on the door.

"Sherlock! I just got a text from Lestrade, he wants us down the police station right away!" he called, before the sound of his footsteps let them know he was walking away. Groaning, frustrated beyond belief now, Sherlock broke off the kiss and leant his forehead on Irene's, smirking ruefully before rolling off of her.

"I'll go get changed," Irene smiled, lingering for one last kiss before slipping into one of Sherlock's beloved shirts to run to her bedroom.

She happily ignored John's wide eyes as she ran past him, hair askew and ruffled, her bare legs on display.

"Now that was one thing I didn't need to see," he sighed, before wandering into the kitchen to make tea.

* * *

As soon as Irene closed the door she noticed her open laptop, the screen faintly glowing in the dim light. Frowning, she crossed over to it, sure she had turned it off yesterday before they went out on the case.

A box popped up, alerting her to the fact that she had an email. Sighing, sure it was another one from her foster mother asking her to come to dinner or some other inane social function, Irene clicked on it, opening the email.

What she read made her heart stop and her blood drain from her face, as her hands started to shake.

**From: Email Username not detected**

**RE: Naughty Girl :)**

**Hey there, little sis, long time no see.**

**Love the new boyfriend. Smart one that one, when are you going to introduce us? **

**You certainly do like to keep him awake, you naughty girl. A man needs his sleep you know, even sociopaths like our dear Mr Holmes.**

**Incidentally, before you yell for your little friends, Maria, first let me explain why I've emailed you. It's very simple.**

**Come to the Grand Hotel by nine' o' clock this morning, or your little boyfriend is going to be sleeping in a body bag. Haven't decided what I'll do to John, but you know me, sis. I'm so changeable :)**

**Don't tell anyone about this, Maria or they're dead. It'll be our little secret.**

**M**

**PS. We have to throw a party for your 24th tonight. Maybe we can invite your foster parents, but you don't like them, do you? Oh well!**

Irene thought fast, her mind quickly and efficiently coming up with a course of action. It made no sense for Moriarty to email her just because of Sherlock, but then again she had never discovered how Sherlock know of Moriarty.

Either way, Sherlock's life was at stake, and John's.

There was no way in hell she was going to let them come to harm because of her. She had promised what they wouldn't know, wouldn't hurt them.

But she had promised Sherlock the truth, and something in Irene cried out at the thought of leaving him. She had no doubt it would be in the most permanent way possible. Moriarty's hatred for her knew no bounds.

She could hear John and Sherlock arguing good-naturedly in the kitchen, and she felt tears spring to her eyes. She dashed them away with the back of her hand, forcing herself to be strong.

She would not tell Sherlock outright, and risk his life but she would leave a breadcrumb trail as it were. She only hoped that when Sherlock followed it, he would keep away from Moriarty.

Quickly, she print-screened the email, copied the image onto another and time-delayed the email until five o clock that evening. Next she wrote Sherlock another email, telling him where she kept her private file, so he could fully understand her connection to Moriarty.

To her brother.

She'd completely forgotten about her birthday. Typical of her brother to bring it up, and the painful memories it elicited.

She dressed after that, trying to hide the shaking in her hands as she buttoned up her raincoat.

* * *

"Come on, Irene!" Sherlock called impatiently, pacing the living room as John rolled his eyes wearily. Just as John was buttoning up his jacket, Irene walked in.

John saw the fragility in her eyes, the façade keeping her emotions at bay, _just_, and frowned.

Something was up.

"Actually guys, I'm going to have cancel. I've just remembered I've got a doctor's appointment at nine, and I can't really miss it," she explained distractedly, for all the world appearing genuinely sorry as Sherlock deflated slightly, and John studied her intently.

"What is it? Is anything wrong?" Sherlock asked, a tinge of concern to his tone which always surprised John. Sherlock crossed to her side, taking her in his arms unselfconsciously.

"Nothing bad, I promise. Just…women's problems," she muttered, and John felt himself floored. Sherlock too, considering the look on his face, like he'd been run headfirst into a brick wall.

"You're not…" John trailed off, seeing the confusion in her eyes before comprehension dawned.

"No I'm not. I've just been feeling a bit off-colour lately," Irene rolled her eyes, before she muttered something under her breath.

Something about men and always jumping to conclusions.

John walked downstairs to hail a cab, worried and trying to pin down exactly why Irene was worrying him, while Sherlock turned one of his piercing looks on her.

"There's nothing you want to tell me, is there Irene?" he asked cautiously. They hadn't been using protection, so there was always the possibility…

"I'm sure. I'm on the Pill anyway. Now go, before your brain explodes from the anticipation," she shoved him playfully, smiling weakly. Returning it, Sherlock turned to walk away before Irene's hand pulled him back, kissing him hard and urgently.

"Text me where you are, and I'll follow," she murmured in the second their lips parted, as she stepped back.

As Sherlock left the flat, he wondered why that kiss felt like a goodbye.


	14. Deductions, Deductions

The Broken Tango

Chapter 14

* * *

Sherlock was consumed by a distinct sense of unease for the entire day, an unease which made it near impossible to concentrate on work.

It even blocked out Anderson's puerile deduction attempts, which was a positive he supposed.

But then again the complete silence from Irene when he texted her, then phoned her was alarming.

Which was why he'd abandoned his lab work, and rushed home, hoping desperately that Irene would be there.

What if the doctor's appointment went badly? What if she was ill, or…?

He didn't know what to think about the second option. _That_ particular possibility was not one he could make sense of, and decided he didn't want to.

Or what if it was something else entirely?

She had been edgy that morning, and that kiss…

Something was wrong; he felt it in his gut.

Sherlock was a man of logic, of pure unwavering rationale. He didn't listen to his gut, ever. Instinct was no replacement for cold, hard fact.

His method of deduction relied on one mantra: observe everything, and then delete all the impossibilities until there is only one solution remaining which must be the truth.

Irene was not pregnant, of that he could be fairly certain. She was taking contraceptives anyway, and she had told him so herself. He knew, for all her secretiveness, that she would tell him she was pregnant if she had been.

She might be ill, but then again Irene was not one to go into a depression, not answer her phone and disappear off.

Another possibility was that her phone battery had died. Perfectly plausible, but that little niggling feeling told him no.

Her fragile state that morning, noticeable even to him, told him otherwise.

So he was trying very hard not to yell at the cabbie to hurry up, John sitting beside him and throwing him worried looks.

Even Lestrade had noticed Sherlock was not quite on form today.

* * *

The moment the cabbie pulled up outside 221B, Sherlock burst from the interior, rushing upstairs while John paid the driver.

"Irene! Irene!" Sherlock called, bursting into the flat. The living room was empty, but Sherlock instantly spotted the slim, black phone on the coffee table.

Irene's phone.

Sure enough, there were several missed calls and text messages waiting to be picked up.

That unease had exploded into outright pain the moment he saw that, as he rushed into her room, and stopped.

All her clothes were still there, her laptop, everything.

Willing himself to calm down, his heart racing and convulsing as his mind told him she had run, run from him, he paced the room.

Logic was needed now, rationale, not blind emotion.

"Sherlock?" John asked cautiously, poking his head into the room and noticing his friend's harried look. He had seen the phone and come to the same conclusion as Sherlock.

Irene was gone.

* * *

It was now three o clock in the afternoon, and the traffic was getting busy on the street below, as Sherlock struggled not to give into the emotions clouding his usually brilliant mind.

John watched him helplessly, unsure how to reach out, how to heal the pain he saw in his friend's eyes.

The man just didn't know how to cope, how to function with this emotion ruling him, and the good doctor felt utterly useless.

"She left her phone, why, why, why? Obviously so we could not contact her, but why would she leave it behind? Something was wrong this morning, I knew it but what?" Sherlock mused aloud, hands clawing at his hair. Finally, mind all but exhausted, he walked back and sat on the floor, back against the wall.

Why had she left him? She had promised she wouldn't….

"_As long as I never have to, I never will."_

She had said as long as she never had to. Never had to….

Something must have happened, or someone must have prodded Irene to leave.

Moriarty?

Possibly.

But what? How was she really connected to him? Why did he murder her parents all those years ago?

_Loyalty is all and nothing is death…_

The message left on the walls of her parents' bedroom.

_We'd gone into hiding, under a false name. I know it was him, knew he wouldn't stop until we were dead, I just didn't know why…_

Past tense. She'd used past tense when she answered his question. Oh that slippery little minx! He had a sneaking suspicion she knew very well why Moriarty had killed her parents.

The message, the false identities, Irene's evasiveness, all spelled out one thing. Her parents, whatever their names had been, had done something, committed some act of disloyalty against Moriarty, and they had been punished for it.

From Irene's recollections, her mother had known enough to save her daughter from her own fate.

But why now? Why do something now, to harm Irene?

Unless it was more personal than he thought.

At that point he looked up at the clock, and realised it was now five o clock. Sighing, unable to stay any longer in the empty yet so full room, he shut the door and went into the kitchen.

* * *

John was sat at the table, with a mug of tea handy and a sympathetic expression. Sherlock didn't want sympathy, he wanted Irene. Here, in his arms, home.

The bloody woman. Why couldn't she have come to him, explained what was going on, instead running away like that?

"Are you alright?" John asked carefully, and Sherlock snapped.

"No, I'm bloody well not alright," he snarled, standing upright and pacing again. "I knew something was wrong this morning, I just knew it. But why, John? Why did she run?"

"Sherlock-" John tried to cut in, but Sherlock didn't take any notice beyond the maelstrom of emotion he was embroiled in.

And it _hurt_.

Anger, pain, worry, betrayal, uncertainty, lo-

No, no, no, not that! Never that!

_Love is a more vicious motivator…_

His own words, from centuries ago it felt, and how blind he had once been, how arrogant and sure of himself.

Until _her_.

He couldn't take this, he wanted to rip his own heart out of his chest so it would stop beating, and gouge his brain out so it would stop thinking, stop repeating the mantra that she had run away from him.

He couldn't let emotion win over logic, not now.

* * *

"Sherlock-" John tried again, but his friend flung away with a snarl like a wounded animal.

In a way, he was. And wounded animals are at their most dangerous when they're in pain, frightened and backed into a corner, like Sherlock was now, suffering under the emotional onslaught he had never wanted to experience, or been able to experience before.

John sighed, sinking onto the arm of one of the chair, deciding to wait it out and hope his friend saw sense eventually and calmed down.

He hoped.

As Sherlock continued to pace, muttering to himself angrily, John's gaze slid sideways to Sherlock's laptop, lying open and switched on atop the desk.

There was an email alert in a little box on the bottom right-hand corner.

"Um, Sherlock, you've got an email," he murmured cautiously, but the man just gestured impatiently, looking half-crazed.

"Delete it," he barked, pacing back and forth. It was driving John crazy to watch, so he clicked on the message alert.

"Sherlock!" he called, but he ignored him. Sighing, John gathered his years of experience in the army to snap his friend out of this. "SHERLOCK, STOP PACING, IT'S DRIVING ME MAD!"

The command, crisp and dictatorial, halted Sherlock in his tracks, breathing heavily and glaring balefully at his friend and colleague.

"You might want to have a look at this," John pointed to the screen, as Sherlock read the urgency in his voice and eyes. He rushed to his side, collapsing into the chair as John vacated it, feeling his heart pound.

**Dear John and Sherlock,**

**First of all, let me say how sorry I am that I had to rush off like this. It was necessary.**

**Sherlock, you'll find everything you need in my bag under my bed. **

**Also attached is some stuff to help you with your cases.**

**Don't try to follow me. I don't want you to find me, the consequences could be fatal.**

**I. X**

Quickly, he scrolled down, John leaving his side to search in Irene's room, while he clicked the attachment.

All it said was a question: What do pigs live in?

He frowned quizzically, when John returned and Mrs Hudson appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Sherlock, dear, I just remembered this. Some nice young chap left you an envelope," she held out an unmarked envelope, which Sherlock snatched away and ripped open.

On the pieces of paper inside were ciphers, random little lines and dots which Sherlock's mind immediately identified as pigpen cipher.

Hence Irene's attachment.

"It's a coded message. She must have been afraid someone would read it," John muttered, looking over his shoulder.

"Well, obviously," Sherlock sighed impatiently. "Did you find the file?"

"Yep, got it here," John slapped the manila file down on the table. He noticed Sherlock was calmer now, focussed on the mystery of Irene's disappearance.

Deciding to read the file first, Sherlock flicked it open and emptied it onto the cluttered desk.

It was her birth certificate, parents' names Isobel and Edward Jameson. It was also fake.

Frowning, he skipped to her personal notes.

Her real name was not Irene Adler. It had been Maria, when she'd been born.

Lestrade had mentioned she had been put in police protective custody; she must have been issued with a new identity too.

Which would explain why Lestrade didn't know of it.

But he had said her file had been destroyed in an archive fire three years ago. So how did Irene come by it?

Unless…

Was it possible Irene was responsible for the fire? It was just a guess, but a plausible one, particularly if she wanted to stop her file getting into the wrong hands.

The hands of Moriarty for example.

But what was the motive behind her parents' murders?

Her file could tell him nothing more, and so he switched to the coded letter just as John spoke up.

"The email's been tampered with. There was an image attachment, but its' been destroyed," John muttered, and Sherlock nodded. He had noticed that. "But who?"

"Moriarty. This is something to do with Moriarty," he replied, quickly working through the code, translating the ciphers.

What he read made his blood run cold, John frowning over his shoulder.

**Sherlock, this is a copy of the email Moriarty sent me this morning. He will destroy the other copy I sent to your email. **

**I am so sorry, but stay safe. Do not come after me, he will kill you.**

**Hey there, little sis, long time no see.**

**Love the new boyfriend. Smart one that one, when are you going to introduce us? **

**You certainly do like to keep him awake, you naughty girl. A man needs his sleep you know, even sociopaths like our dear Mr Holmes.**

**Incidentally, before you yell for your little friends, Maria, first let me explain why I have emailed you. It is very simple.**

**Come to the Grand Hotel by nine' o' clock this morning, or your little boyfriend is going to be sleeping in a body bag. Have not decided what I will do to John, but you know me, sis. I am so changeable.**

**Do not tell anyone about this, Maria or they're dead. It will be our little secret.**

**M**

**I am so sorry I did not tell you earlier, but it was the only way to keep you all safe. James is my half brother, same father different mothers. After our father's death, my mother fell in love with another and ran, taking me with her, hiding under a false name, but James found us, and killed my mother and adoptive father for betraying our birth father's memory. He is insane.**

**Stay alive, Sherlock. You are the only one that can stop him.**

* * *

Sherlock's brain was nearly overloaded with information, as all the puzzle pieces clicked into place.

_She was Moriarty's younger sister. His half-sister._

_Loyalty is all and nothing is death._

_Her mother and now adoptive father killed for betraying the memory of Moriarty senior._

_After their deaths, she was placed into police custody and given the new identity of Irene Adler. _

_Which was why Lestrade would not know of it, to protect Irene, and why she stole her file and then destroyed the archive. She was destroying the evidence of any previous life, or at least the possibility of it._

_But why keep the file?_

By the time he had finished explaining all that to John, it was nearly six o clock at night.

"Amazing. She's been running for years, hasn't she?" his friend shook his head in awe, as Sherlock brooded beside him.

"But this doesn't tell us where she's gone," Sherlock barked, standing abruptly, running his hands through his hair distractedly.

"Moriarty said to come to the Grand Hotel. Well that's a start," John muttered, just as Sherlock's phone buzzed.

"Don't be stupid, John there's no hotel in London called the Grand. I know where she is," Sherlock cut him off bluntly, looking down at his phone.

"How can you know?" John asked, a little scathingly. "The answer just pop into your omniscient head?"

"No, Irene has just texted me," he replied, as John gaped and scrambled to look at the screen.

It read:

**Got a new phone, old one not safe. We need to talk.**

**Come to this address.**

**The Old Palace, South Bank.**

"It's a trap," John stated surely. Sherlock stood and reached for his coat.

"The thought had occurred to me, John. It would make no sense for Irene to text me after telling me several times that she doesn't want me to come after her. No, there's some greater game here, which Irene is just a part of. I won't leave her to him," Sherlock replied coolly, tying his scarf around his neck. He reached for his gloves, only to find them in John's outstretched hand, his friend already wrapped up for the cold night air. "He butchered her mother, and adoptive father. She's survived this long, but that could end tonight, and I'm not about to let it."

John saw the old determined Sherlock raise his head, taking charge and felt a surge of hope.

_We're coming, Irene…_


	15. The Broken Tango

The Broken Tango

Chapter 15

* * *

The Old Palace on the southern bank of the Thames was a hotel, renovated from the remains of a ducal palace destroyed in the London Blitz. Restored to its former glory, it had become the favourite escape of celebrities and dignitaries, high-class criminals and the obscenely wealthy. The staff had a reputation amongst certain circles for discretion, and it was often rumoured to be used for trysts and deal brokering among the criminal elite.

Tonight its windows were shining golden with light, spilling down to the gardens which bordered the river. An Eden within the confines of the urban sprawl of London.

Sherlock looked up at the towering levels of the hotel from the other side of the street, watching as limousines pulled up, dropping their glittering cargo at the door. His piercing eyes scanned the crowd, and then the windows and rooftops, picking out likely places for cameras and entry points.

And snipers.

"We can't go in the front door," John murmured beside him, military eyes already finding an entry route. "Our best bet would be the-"

"Staff entrance. Exactly," Sherlock finished for him, glad he had someone on whom he could utterly rely with him. His mind had cleared from its emotional fog, now he had a goal in sight.

Find Irene, and get her out.

Casually the pair crossed the road, slipping into one of the side alleys which ran past the hotel, to the staff entrance.

They slipped inside easily enough, into the bustling locker room. No one looked at them twice.

Sherlock immediately grabbed one of the sharp black tuxedoes hanging from a rail, a small black mask hanging from the hanger. Just as John did the same, Sherlock shook his head.

"Oh no. I'm going in alone, but I need you to create some kind of diversion, so I can get Irene away unnoticed," he explained at John's questioning glare. The ex-army doctor sighed, but acquiesced, taking Sherlock's coat and scarf. Rather than swap his own suit for the tuxedo, Sherlock draped the bowtie casually around his neck, before slipping the mask into place.

"Will that do?" John asked, the locker room now deserted so he no longer had to lower his voice. Sherlock grinned rakishly.

"The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight, John. How do I look?" he asked, teasingly. John smirked.

"Knock' em dead, kiddo," he replied jokingly.

* * *

The pair separated as soon as they cleared the staff area, merging with the crowd of guests heading for the ballroom. John tried not to stare at the opulent surroundings, marble and gilt, an actual, honest-to-God crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling above them. The place was lit up with candles, the walls draped in silks, lending the austerely wealthy rooms a Gothic drama and grace.

Sherlock nodded up to the chandelier, sending a John a meaningful look out the corner of his eyes, one his partner intercepted and understood before they slunk into the ballroom, onto the main balcony.

"Talk about your clichés," John muttered under his breath, dumbstruck.

They were stood in a gallery overlooking the ballroom, intersected with marble columns. Below people milled in glittering clothes and masks, while a band played music in one corner, on a velvet draped stage.

Sherlock ignored John's nervous muttering, as he quickly searched the crowd below for Irene. Sure enough, he spotted her taking a place on the dance floor, her long hair swept up and pinned, a red rose in her hair.

Her lithe figure was shown to advantage in a crimson silk dress, the v-shaped neckline exposing her delicate collarbone and neck. A ruffle of dramatic black lace bisected the bodice, running down the skirt, splitting the silk so her slender legs were on display.

Ignoring the curious looks he and John were attracting now, he whispered, "Wait for my signal, then get out. We'll meet you outside."

"Good luck," John whispered faintly, before slipping away into the shadows in Irene's direction before slipping into the crowd.

As Sherlock slipped into the crowd, he made sure to observe everything. He was achingly aware he was now in the company of some of the world's most dangerous men and women, some of whom he had helped thwart himself.

To be recognised would be fatal.

As he slowly walked closer to Irene, he noticed her eyes and her expression.

Beneath the black lace covering her face, it was blank, steely, armoured. Her smile, while supposedly animated and joyful, did not reach her eyes.

Gone was the fragility of the morning, replaced by an iron will to not let anyone see weakness. In this crowd, that was something she could not afford.

He'd told John the art of disguise was knowing how to hide in plain sight. He was a master of the art, but Irene was something else.

Gone was the reckless, fiercely intelligent and tempestuously defiant young woman he knew, and in her place, was an implacable ice queen.

His senses awoke and reached for her, hoping desperately that she might look up and see him, or at least sense his proximity.

If she did, she gave no sign as the crowd dispersed, clearing the floor as the band struck up a fast-moving, seductive beat, taking her place opposite another masked man.

Spotting an opportunity to intercept her, and let her know he was there, he took up a position a few people down from her, waiting for his chance to finally hold her in his arms again.

And get her out.

* * *

Irene felt a _frisson_ down her spine, as she stood in the crowd of criminals and friends of her brother, a feeling of warmth which spread down her spine.

_He_ was here.

Her breath hitching, she moved into position for this farcical dance she was being forced to perform.

She had yet to come face to face with her brother, but all this had been arranged as a torture for her, she was sure, as she waited for the axe to fall.

Every nerve was stretched taut, and now her senses too, as she searched for Sherlock.

Only one man could capture her senses like this, just by looking at her.

_No, no, no I did this to protect him, not to bring him here…_

Mentally cursing all stubborn, consulting detectives, she took up her position, waiting for the first beat. Her partner smiled vacuously, but she paid him no attention as the tango started.

She swirled into hold, the movements of the dance second nature to her, as she searched the crowd for Sherlock or John.

Another _frisson_ rippled down her spine, as she turned her head desperately but she couldn't see him.

Her partner spun her, and she had to concentrate to move her feet in time, to avoid tripping over the ridiculous dress she'd been forced to wear.

It seemed her brother was nothing if not sadistic.

Trying one last time, she looked around for Sherlock, just as she collided with a hard torso, strong arms instinctively taking her weight, settling into hold.

She knew those arms, knew that body holding her, her knee hitched up to his hip.

Trembling slightly, Irene's distracted eyes focussed on the man holding her, their lips brushing thanks to the fact her body was crushed against his.

"Sherlock," she breathed, in pure shock. Her arms were draped around his neck, and she saw the hunger in his blue eyes, behind the mask, and the anger.

Abruptly, he forced her around, yanking her arms up above her head. Remembering where they were, and whose company they were in, she pulled them back down, going along with the dance the other couples were doing around them, conscious of a new dance beginning.

One only she and Sherlock were dancing.

"You shouldn't be here," she whispered fiercely as they danced, bodies coming together and breaking apart just to return, in a constant teasing of the senses. The tango had always been one of Irene's favourites, with its passion and heat, but right then it was distracting her, tormenting her with Sherlock's closeness, his strong body guiding her with an arrogant skill which took her breath away.

"Neither should you," Sherlock replied, whispering in her ear, before spinning her back to face him. Irene pulled away just for him to yank her back, hips against his, as she stepped around his leg and let him dip her.

Irene looked around at the guests, all those she was supposed to meeting tonight, to 'welcome' her back into the fold, and shivered.

"If someone recognises you, Sherlock, we're both dead," she muttered. They went through a series of turns, fast and provocative, leaving Irene breathless as she once again ended in Sherlock's arms, knee pressed to his hip, elegant fingers clasping the join, as he leant back on his supporting leg, pressing her even more firmly against him.

"No-one will recognise me," he replied, arrogantly sure. Irene wasn't so sure.

With his lanky, wiry frame and distinctive black curls he was far too recognisable for her liking, and she knew there were some people in this room with old scores to settle.

"You need to leave, now," she said forcefully, even as his lips were once again within inches of hers. Her body was far too susceptible, already burning for him, for his kiss.

They'd been apart for just ten hours, and she had missed him far more than she wanted to admit.

"Very clever using pigpen cipher by the way. Your dear brother must have found it amusing," he sneered, as she stared at him like he'd slapped her.

"Never call him that. That monster is not my brother," she hissed at him.

"Then why did you leave?" Sherlock asked, his own anger beginning to rise.

The end of the song was fast approaching, and Irene glanced worriedly around.

They swirled through one final turn, before Sherlock forced her back into a dip so violently it felt like her spine might snap in two, her leg hitched up around his hip.

The song ended, as applause rang down from the crowd of guests, but Irene was unaware of any of that.

All she could feel was Sherlock's hot breath on her skin, his body so effortlessly holding hers suspended off the floor, her body pressed to his in the most intimate way possible.

He slowly brought her back up, both breathing heavily as desire reared its potent head, the fire of their need beginning to lick at their skins.

Their eyes locked, entirely lost in each other when an almighty crash came from the foyer.

"We need to talk," Sherlock muttered, as everyone rushed to see what had happened. From the decibel level and the current yells of dismay, John had unhooked the support rope holding the chandelier up, and sent the crystal creation crashing to the floor.

And with that, he pulled her after him, disappearing into the corridors of the hotel.

* * *

Eventually they came to an empty room, the old library, and Sherlock dragged Irene through before locking the door.

The room was cavernous, the bookshelves reaching to the ceiling, ringed in by a gallery running around the walls. One wall of windows looked out on the gardens, where the perimeter walls ran down to the river.

Watching Irene in the moonlight, Sherlock tried to get a handle on the damned emotions plaguing him, the mixture of hunger and anger.

"You wearing a dress," he remarked bitterly, "I should take a picture, Irene. Or is it Maria?"

Irene remained silent, as he walked towards her, almost menacingly.

"Tell me, Maria, did you like keeping all of this secret from us? From me? Knowing that there was something you could hold over my head, something I couldn't deduce? Made you feel superior, did it?" he continued caustically. He noticed her fists slowly curling, her little body shaking.

Good, he was making her angry. It could only be a tenth of what he felt right now.

"Shut up. Don't call me that," she murmured, softly but with a warning intensity.

It didn't stop Sherlock.

"Tell me is big brother watching us now? Big bro Moriarty? Welcomed you back into the fold, Maria?" he snapped one last time, glaring at her as she swung around.

Her hand came up, to strike him, but he caught it effortlessly, ruthlessly pulling her flush against him as she struggled.

"Never call me 'Maria' again! Maria Moriarty died the night her mother came into her room and told her to run and never look back, to never trust anyone. Maria Moriarty died the morning she walked into her parents' bedroom to find her mother's throat slashed open by her own brother! I hate him, I hate him so much. He's there in every shadow of my life, never letting me trust, never letting me stay anywhere before I have to run again," she snarled at him, tears leaking down her face, anger and pain competing for dominance in her face. "It's how I've survived for so long, Sherlock. I never lied to you. I didn't tell you some things, but I have never lied about who I really am."

She wrenched herself away, backing away until they were stood several feet apart, both panting heavily.

"How did you find me?" she asked at last, not looking at him.

"You sent me a text," Sherlock replied, as her head came up frowning.

"I did not, and you know I didn't. You need to get out of here, now, before it's too late," Irene replied heatedly.

"You're coming with me," he shot back, but she shook her head determinedly.

"No. If I leave, he'll just come after you, and it won't stop until everyone is dead. He will kill you!" she breathed, her face softening now.

Finding himself softening too, Sherlock reached out to her but she moved back.

"No, please don't. I can't lose you, Sherlock…he's insane, he'll never stop until he kills me and you, I-I…" she stuttered, openly trembling now.

"Irene, please come home. I will protect you; I'll protect both of us. Just come back to me, and never do something as stupid as this again," he whispered, unconsciously pleading.

Her beautiful face was full of yearning and fear, so open for the first time. This time she didn't resist as he drew her into his arms, holding her to him with a soft sigh.

She was back where she belonged.

"I need you, Irene. Come home, and we'll stop Moriarty together," he breathed in her ear, and she shuddered. Closing her eyes, she nodded just once, relaxing into the safe haven of his arms. "You don't have to run anymore."

Gently, Sherlock tilted her chin up, wiping away her tears with his thumbs before lowering his lips to hers in a chaste, innocent kiss.

When they parted, both were achingly aware of their renewed hunger for each other, hot and demanding.

Inwardly shaking, Sherlock drew in a juddering breath, forcing his mind to concentrate.

"Is Moriarty here? Is there any security posted?" he asked, sombrely.

"No, I haven't seen him at all. When I arrived, I was kept under watch by some of his lackeys, but I've had no face to face contact with him. As for security, this place is crawling with it. Guards, snipers the works. I'm surprised you got in," she murmured, frowningly.

"The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight," Sherlock replied with a cocky smirk, one Irene knew well.

"Oh let me guess, got in through the staff entrance, you get me while John sets off a diversion? Nice," she smiled back.

"There's an alleyway which runs right past here, outside the walls. It'll lead us back to the road-" Sherlock began.

"Where John is waiting, with a taxi presumably," Irene finished for him, nodding.

Sherlock shrugged out of his suit jacket, throwing it to her while he crossed to the wall of windows, throwing one open.

"Don't suppose you've got your bulletproof vest on?" he asked, looking out at the night. There were several places a sniper could hide and he had no doubt there would be some in the gardens.

"Nope," she replied, joining him at the window.

"Oh shame. We've got a bit of running to do," he muttered back.

"And here I thought you said I didn't have to anymore running," Irene teased, bending down and tearing the skirt of her dress so it was several inches shorter.

Sherlock regarded the ruined dress ruefully. "Pity, I had several very satisfying visions of tearing that dress off of you, inch by inch."

"Mind out of the gutter, you," Irene replied, taking her high-heeled shoes off next.

"Ready?" Sherlock held out his hand with a heartbreakingly dashing smile as, taking a deep breath, Irene took it.

"Bring it on," she said simply, before they plunged into the darkness.

* * *

All hell rained down on them as they tore through the gardens to the perimeter wall, gunfire ricocheting and echoing around them as the bullets hit statues and plant pots around them, as they ran, hand in hand.

Irene had never felt so alive, freedom rushing through her veins, as she let out an exhilarated laugh.

Now she knew she was insane.

Rain began to fall, like a grey cloud in the darkness, making it even harder for the snipers to hit them as they zigzagged through the shadows.

Within minutes, they reached the perimeter wall, Sherlock giving Irene a leg up, bent low over the wall to minimise her target, hoisting himself up beside her.

The sounds of gunfire slowly faded away as the two figures jumped down the other side, and ran across the alley.

At the entrance, where it met the road, a black taxi pulled up and they dived inside the open door, before it quickly became lost in the traffic of late night London.

* * *

**More soon!**

**After the next chapter, updates will be intermittent, seeing as I have to wait until the series DVD is released, so I can write Irene into the 'Great Game' episode.**

**:)**


	16. Home, Sweet Home

The Broken Tango

Chapter 16

* * *

John let out a sigh of relief when he saw Irene and Sherlock emerge from the alleyway, Irene's dress torn and her feet dirty from the scum of the alley floor, both red from running.

He slid the door open, and reached out a hand to Irene to pull her inside.

"Step on it. Baker Street," he called to the cabbie, who was staring incredulously at the dishevelled state of Irene and Sherlock in the back.

"Irene, are you ok?" John asked, medically trained eyes already checking her over. Apart from some grazing to her legs from scrambling over the wall, and what he guessed was a high level of adrenaline in her bloodstream, she looked fine.

"I'm ok. Thank you," she breathed, leaning over and hugging John tightly. Awkwardly he patted her back, glancing over at Sherlock watching them closely.

As soon as Irene released John, Sherlock reached out an arm and pulled her against him, her head nestling in the hollow of his collarbone.

Eyebrows rising, John watched this unusual display of human affection from Sherlock, small though it was. Sherlock caught his eye.

"Shut up," he muttered, grumpily. John smirked.

* * *

Companionable silence reigned in the taxi until they pulled up outside Baker Street. The cold air hit Irene like a steam train on her bare legs and feet, and she winced as she walked on the wet paving slabs.

Without preamble, Sherlock opened the door while John paid the cabbie, ushering Irene inside. She couldn't help but glance over her shoulder, expecting any minute to see a red dot appear on her body, or for John to fall to his knees with a bullet hole through his skull.

"Oh dearie, what have you been up to?" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, coming out of her flat as the pair made for the stairs. The kind old landlady looked incredulously at Irene's filthy dress and bare feet, and Sherlock's soaking wet shirt.

"Business as usual, Mrs Hudson. Business as usual," Sherlock replied, trying to head her off while gesturing for Irene to go upstairs.

"Oh, Sherlock? That nice Detective Inspector Lestrade popped round. He couldn't get hold of Irene, and he was worried, so I let him wait upstairs. Hope you don't mind?" she added, as John closed the front door. The two men exchanged a glance, before they both sprinted up the stairs.

Lestrade didn't know about Moriarty, about Irene's past, and Sherlock suspected she wanted to keep it that way. He did too, come to think of it.

* * *

Irene was surprised as she walked into the flat, by the sheer warmth which swamped her body at the sensation of being home.

_Her_ home.

Nothing had changed in ten hours, not that she had expected it to. But she looked at all the clutter, all the mess and the general slobbery that was her two boys, and felt contentment well up.

Until she saw who was sitting in the two armchairs, waiting for her.

_Oh crap…_

* * *

"Uncle! Mother!" she exclaimed, stopping dead. "What are you doing here?"

Great, first she had to deal with her psychotic, megalomaniac of an elder brother tonight, and now her too concerned uncle and would-be controlling mother? There was only so much a girl could take in one night.

Lestrade was the first to rise, obviously just gotten off duty as he walked towards his niece.

"Good God, Irene, are you alright?" he asked, eyes on her torn dress, obviously too large suit jacket and bare, dirty feet. "I've been calling you and Sherlock all day, and when you didn't answer, we thought-"

"You thought Sherlock had gotten me involved in something dangerous and physically unable to call you back. Incidentally my phone's battery was low, and I have been too busy to charge it today," Irene interrupted him coolly, before letting the older man hug her.

"I was just worried, Irene," he murmured in her ear, as she saw her mother stand gracefully from her chair.

"Busy doing what?" Mary Adler demanded.

Irene sighed heavily. "Nice to see you too, Mother."

At that moment Sherlock and John burst into the flat, looking slightly worse for wear after their hellish night.

"And these are your two…flatmates?" Mary asked in turn, her eyes narrowed as Lestrade released Irene. Protectively, Sherlock reached out and twined his arm around Irene's waist, sliding her into place beside him. Covertly, he studied Lestrade but the older man looked curiously satisfied at the obvious intimacy between him and his pseudo niece.

The foster mother was another matter.

Mary Adler was like her brother in their good looks, except her hair was not silver but deep brown, only just streaked with grey, and restrained into an elegant bun. Sherlock's eyes took in the tailored pearl-grey suit and small diamonds in her ears and on her finger above the wedding ring. He remembered Lestrade telling him the Adlers were wealthy.

And highly disapproving, but then again Sherlock really didn't care, and he knew Irene didn't either.

"Yes, they are, Mother. This is Doctor John Watson, recently returned from active service in Afghanistan…" she gestured to John, who shook Mary's hand with a slight air of trepidation. With a devilish smile, she patted Sherlock's shoulder as he sent her a repressive look. "And this is Sherlock Holmes, the worlds' only consulting detective."

"Mrs Adler," Sherlock deployed every inch of his not inconsiderable charm, shaking her hand gently. Mary Adler looked like she was ready to snatch her hand back at the first opportunity.

"Pleased to meet you, I am sure. Irene, dear, you could have told us you were back in London. You needn't have ended up…here," her foster mother sniffed. "Perhaps we can talk, privately?"

"No, I'm sure there's nothing you can't say in front of my flatmates, 'mother'," Irene replied caustically, eying said foster parent like prey.

"Irene," Lestrade murmured warningly, but Irene just sent him a look while Mary's face soured.

"Anyone for a cup of tea?" John suddenly asked, the tension in the air physically palpable.

"I would love some," Lestrade jumped at the chance, following John into the kitchen while Sherlock drifted away to his laptop, but not too far from Irene.

She felt his protective hovering, but only smiled.

* * *

"Irene, I don't like you living here. And with two men! You can do so much better than this, if you would just stop being so stubborn and intractable!" Mary hissed, when she thought the others were out of earshot. Irene rolled her eyes.

"Because I didn't let you and Adler Senior dictate my life? If that's the price I have to pay, I will. Besides I am happy here," she replied coolly, staring her foster mother down.

Mary bristled incredulously. "With a shell-shocked ex-soldier and a sociopath?"

"Oh mother, do stop being so old-fashioned. It's called post-traumatic stress disorder, and by the way John does not suffer from it, and Sherlock is…" she trailed off, since he was technically a sociopath.

But then again so was she. Borderline.

Then it clicked. "How do you know about John and Sherlock?" she asked, turning on her mother angrily. Mary looked uncomfortable for a second, before flaring up.

"Your Uncle told me about them, and I've seen their websites. 'The Science of Deduction'. How you can stand such danger-loving freaks, I don't know!" she sneered, flicking a dirty glance at Sherlock.

"Yeah, you know what, they are danger-loving freaks-"

"Hey!" John yelled indignantly from the kitchen.

"-but they're the most brilliant, funniest, bravest men I have ever met, and I will never leave. Besides, what was it you always said? Each to their own? Guess I've finally found my own kind of freak," Irene finished coldly, her tone artic and scathing. Mary flinched, as Sherlock wandered over, with an exaggeratedly charming smile.

"Perhaps you would like to see yourself out, Mrs Adler. Irene has had quite enough excitement for one evening," he murmured mock-courteously.

"Depends what kind of excitement you mean, darling," Irene drawled, smirking at the look of rising horror on her foster mother's face as Sherlock twined his arm around her waist and pulled her back into him.

Without another word, Mary Adler stormed out of the flat, the front door slamming downstairs. Lestrade reappeared in the landing a minute later, looking after his sister then back at Irene.

"Phew, at least that's over. I guess I'll see you soon?" he asked Irene, who nodded.

"As soon as you have a case for us, Uncle," she replied, not moving from the circle of Sherlock's arms.

With a slight smile, Lestrade disappeared down the stairs, a second, gentler slam of the door telling them he had gone.

Irene sighed, releasing her aggressive tension, and relaxing back into Sherlock's arms.

"Welcome home," Sherlock murmured into her ear, pressing his lips to her neck desirously.

"It's good to be home," Irene sighed, tilting her head back in ecstasy to meet his lips. They kissed, gently at first, but with desire quickly rising, as Irene turned around in his arms, stretching up in his hold.

"Could you two get a room?" John's acerbic comment had them jumping apart, panting and desire running through their veins.

Then Sherlock grinned, and Irene almost groaned. She knew that grin.

"Shall we?" he pretended to bow and held out his hand to Irene.

"Let's," she agreed, taking his hand just for him to pick her up, carrying her like a bride into his bedroom.

John sighed as the door closed, rolling his eyes before a helpless grin spread over his face.

Things were back to normal, or as normal as it was possible to get in this house.

* * *

Later that night, Irene was comfortably sprawled in Sherlock's arms, sated and blissful, before the cold truth decided to poke its head in where it wasn't wanted. But she couldn't ignore it.

"James won't stop, you know. He'll find us," Irene whispered into the cushioning muscle of Sherlock's chest. She shifted on top of him, feeling his arms tense around her supportively.

"Possibly. Ever since that taxi driver case, I've been expecting him to show himself eventually," he replied, somewhere above her in the darkness, gently stroking her arm.

"It was all a trap, wasn't it? Threatening me, luring you to the Old Palace, the snipers, all of it. He was trying to get to you, and to tie up my loose end all at once," Irene said, wearily.

Sherlock's silence was agreement enough.

"I'm right, aren't I?" she pressed, looking up at him in the darkness of his bedroom.

"I rather wish you hadn't quite reached that conclusion, but yes, I think you are," he finally replied, stretching under her slightly. They were cocooned in his bed, the sheets drawn over them like a bubble, their own little bubble of heaven.

Refusing to let the spectre of Moriarty ruin the sense of homecoming she had felt stepping back over the door of 221B Baker Street, Irene let the subject drop.

"I have to go to Belarus in a few days. I received an email from one Barry Berwick, apparently in prison for murder in Minsk and facing execution. Come with me," Sherlock suddenly asked, and Irene raised her head to stare at him.

"I'm _may _be needing…assistance on this, and John would rather not abandon his job at the surgery or Sarah, even for a day or two. Come with me," Sherlock pressed, as Irene felt her shock dissipate.

"Alright," she murmured, stretching up to just brush her lips across his teasingly, her long legs sliding over his. "I'll come, just in case you need_ assistance_. Plus I'm sure the government will be pleased if I can avert any diplomatic incidents while we're there."

"I can't help it if the Russians have no sense of humour. Or can't face a few home truths," Sherlock retorted mulishly, at which Irene laughed.

"Oh just shut up and kiss me, you idiot," she breathed, lowering her mouth to his. His hands slid over her shoulder blades as the kiss deepened, before he abruptly rolled them over, forcefully exploring her mouth with his tongue as she moaned, her hands clutching his shoulder and bicep desperately.

Irene wrenched her lips away from his, pressing her head back into the pillow as Sherlock's mouth dropped to her neck, caressing the tender flesh hungrily.

"I might have to bring a gag. That might avert any potential disasters," she panted out. "Or we could bring the riding crop."

Sherlock raised his head from her body just long enough to growl out, "Don't tempt me," before covering her giggling mouth with his once more, already shifting, thrusting into her body with a practised roll of his hips.

All thoughts of Belarus, riding crops and gags fled from Irene's mind as she gave up thinking, and just concentrated on driving the both of them utterly mindless.

* * *

**More soon! :) **


	17. A Murder In Minsk

The Broken Tango

Chapter 17

* * *

Irene decided she didn't like Minsk. It was absolutely freezing, at 6 degrees Celsius, and she could see her breath crystallising in front of her face as she exhaled.

The cold, grey room they were currently in seemed to scream despair and suffering, the chill of the grim furniture and metal bars on the windows making her shiver through her heavy coat.

The Minsk Detention Centre No. 1 was the largest detention centre in Belarus, and the only one which had facilities for death row prisoners.

Like the young man sitting opposite Sherlock at the nearest table.

Apart from one uniformed, armed guard standing at the other end of the room, the meeting hall was empty, devoid of life.

The room felt as much of a prison cell as the cells themselves, which Irene had glimpsed through yet more caged doors as the prison governor escorted them here.

Irene scrutinised the reason why they were there, sitting opposite Sherlock in his usual dark suit, scarf and heavy coat, the garish orange of the prison uniform contrasting sharply against the darkness sitting opposite.

Barry Berwick was a tall, thickset man in his early thirties, with a husky voice that spoke of too much alcohol and cigarettes, with thuggish, mud-brown eyes which made Irene's skin crawl when they settled on her when she'd first walked in with Sherlock.

The prison governor had just left them, when Barry leaned forward on the top of the table, a wild look of desperation in his eye.

"Please, Mr Holmes you gotta 'elp me. I-I swear I didn' do it-" he began, his cockney accent harsh in the cold air. Irene took a seat on an adjoining table, watching Mr Berwick intently, crossing her booted legs.

"Just tell me what happened from the beginning," Sherlock cut across him, and even now Irene could hear the forced patience in his voice. Since getting on the plane and being met by the British Ambassador, both Sherlock and Irene had been visited with a growing sense they were on a wild goose chase.

Berwick's partner, Karen, had been found dead in their hotel room a month ago, dead of multiple stab wounds. Barry had called the ambulance, and the local police, but on finding his DNA on the murder weapon, he had been arrested and was likely to be sentenced to death.

Which was why Sherlock was here now.

"We'd been to a bar," Berwick began shakily. "Nice place and, uh, I got chattin' with one of the waitresses, and Karen weren' happy with that so we get back to the hotel; we end up havin' a bit of a ding-dong don' we?"

Sherlock's sigh of derision almost made Irene smirk. She was liking this less by the second.

"She's always gettin' at me. Sayin I weren' a real man," Berwick continued.

"Wasn't a real man," Sherlock quietly interjected, as Berwick stared at him.

Irene did too. Now was not the time or the place to be pedantic about the man's speech.

"Wha'?" Berwick asked, mystified.

"It's not 'weren't', it's 'wasn't'," Sherlock explained, with an air of mock-patience which again almost made Irene laugh. Typical Sherlock.

"Oh," their suspect muttered, still looking mystified. Irene stifled another giggle, as Sherlock glanced at her, sighing heavily.

"Go on."

"Well, um, then I dunno how it happened, but suddenly there's a knife in my hands," Berwick continued, and Irene felt a chill ripple down her spine. She could already guess how this was going to go. "Y'know me old man was a butcher, so I know how to 'andle knives. He learnt us how to cut up a beast!"

"Taught!" Sherlock cut in.

"What!" Berwick asked, clearly losing his temper.

"Taught you how to cut up a beast," Sherlock corrected him coolly, clearly annoying the younger man now.

"Yeah, well, and then I done it-"

"_Did_ it!"

"Did it! Stabbed her over and over, and I looked down and she weren' movin'-" Berwick finally lost it, smashing the table top with the flat of his hand. Sherlock's impatient sigh, followed by his dismissive looking away made Berwick pause, forcing himself to speak properly. "Wasn't moving no more…anymore."

Sherlock looked back, sharing a look with Irene who inclined her head.

This was a waste of time. Domestic murder, case closed.

"God 'elp me, I don' know who it happened but it was an accident, I swear!" Berwick's voice got more and more agitated, as Sherlock stood up abruptly, motioning for Irene to follow.

"You gotta 'elp me, Mr Holmes! Everyone says you're the best," his eyes pleaded with them as Sherlock paused beside Irene.

"Your reputation precedes you," she murmured out the corner of her mouth, Sherlock's lips quirking in a short smile.

"Naturally," he replied, and she rolled her eyes at his arrogance.

"-without you…I'll get hung for this," Berwick trailed off brokenly. Sherlock turned back to him, hands in pockets, face coldly blank.

"No, no Mr Berwick not at all. Hanged, yes," Sherlock replied with a strange little smile, before walking away without a word.

Stunned, Berwick didn't move until Irene turned away too, calling after her. "Please, Miss Adler tell 'im! It was an accident!"

"Didn't they tell you, Mr Berwick? Hell hath no fury like a woman murdered. Enjoy your stay in prison," she replied icily before walking away without looking back.

Sherlock was waiting for her by the barred gate separating the prison from the visitors' area and reception, signing some forms absentmindedly.

"It's 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned'," he murmured, as Irene gaped at him, before rolling her eyes.

"I know that, but what's the point of having a good quote if I can't change it?" she retorted, as it was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes.

"You're being infantile. You've obviously caffeine deprived," he muttered, shaking his curly head.

"You're being annoyingly pedantic, so you're obviously annoyed and more tired than you would admit," Irene shot back, signing the form in turn. They returned their visitors' badges and walked out into the cold, Russian air.

"I was not being pedantic. Is it asking too much for people to speak properly?" Sherlock muttered under his breath, as they walked out of the prison gates. Irene decided not to reply.

It would only make him worse.

* * *

As soon as they made back onto the main road, they walked quickly to their hotel, not lingering in the grey streets. The sky was a shade of iron-black, threatening rain on the already soaked roads.

The roads were jam-packed, car horns hooting angrily with the occasional curse in Russian flying past.

* * *

Irene opened the door of their hotel suite with a relieved sigh. Just standing in that prison meeting hall, she had felt cold seeping into her bones, along with a deep feeling of uncleanness.

Particularly after the way Berwick had eyed her up appreciatively when they had first walked in to find him waiting for them.

Sherlock walked straight past her, collapsing onto the bed, texting the British Ambassador, as Irene shut the door with a sigh.

Absentmindedly, Sherlock kicked off his shoes, lying back in his heavy coat and scarf, his socks exposed hilariously to the air.

Irene slid off her coat and scarf, slipping her gloves off before sitting down at the small desk where her laptop sat, charged and waiting.

"I'll get a flight home," she called over to Sherlock, who grunted in acknowledgement. For several moments, the only noise in the room was the click of Irene's fingers on the keyboard of her laptop, and Sherlock's dextrous hands on his phone.

Flight booked, Irene shut her laptop and slid her boots off, stretching and rotating her tired ankles.

"Well, that was a complete waste of time," Sherlock muttered grumpily, throwing his phone down on the bed in an almost childish fit of temper.

Ignoring him, Irene stood up, making for the bathroom. "Flight's booked. Eight o clock tonight, so we have six hours to kill. No pun intended."

Abruptly she felt two hands slide around her waist, pulling her backwards and into a familiar set of arms.

"Six hours? I have a highly time-consuming suggestion to while away those six hours," Sherlock murmured in her ear, before his fingers already began working at the buttons running up the front of her blouse.

"Tempting," Irene licked her lips, smiling seductively as she turned around in his hold. "But after that stinking prison, I need a shower. Care to join me?"

Sherlock grinned, already shrugging out of his coat, pulling his scarf away when his phone jingled.

"Hold that thought, I'll be in, in a minute," he ushered her towards the bathroom, picking the phone up with a sigh. "Mycroft."

Smirking now, Irene waited until Sherlock seated himself at the desk, before sneaking up behind him.

"No, Mycroft I'm in Belarus, as you well know. Tell me, are you still f-" Sherlock's sarcastic tone was abruptly cut off by the feel of Irene's lips sliding down his neck from behind, her hands gliding down his chest teasingly, nails flexing into his skin through his shirt.

Irene giggled against his throat, eliciting a shiver to run down his spine, hardening every muscle as she slowly tortured him.

"Nothing, Mycroft, that was nothing. Ahh-" he fought and failed to hold off back a moan as Irene's lips sucked on the near-permanent love bite he had next to his Adam's apple, her teeth scraping his skin. "Mycroft, can we delay this conversation for another time?"

Silently laughing, Irene released him, stepping lightly away to the bathroom door as Sherlock sent her a smouldering glare.

It clearly read: _you're in big trouble_.

With a snort, she closed the door and began to undress.

_Bring it on…_

* * *

Sherlock glared at the closed bathroom door, brain mentally cursing all brunette, borderline sociopaths.

"Ah, was that the lovely Ms Adler I just heard? Gotten you a bit hot under the collar, Sherlock?" Mycroft drawled in his ear, bringing Sherlock back to earth. He glared at the door again before replying.

"Still following my colleagues around like a little puppy dog, Mycroft?" he snapped acerbically. "Your pathetic excuse of brotherly concern is just that: pathetic."

"Oh, my heart is bleeding, Sherlock. And I would rather think Ms Adler is far more than a colleague, Sherlock," Mycroft's voice was infuriatingly smug over the phone, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "When's the big day?"

"Goodbye, Mycroft. If our plane's delayed by staff strikes, I'll know who to blame," he muttered curtly, before disconnecting. Sighing heavily, he placed it on the bedside table before moving towards the closed bathroom door.

He could hear the thunder of the shower, and the rising scent of Irene's shampoo, lavender if he wasn't mistaken.

Grinning predatorily, he opened the door and stepped into the misty, stuffy room.

* * *

**And more soon ;P**


	18. A Storm Is Coming

The Broken Tango

Chapter 18

* * *

Irene let the hot water pound her forehead, enjoying the feeling of the jets against her skin. If she stretched her hearing, she could just hear Sherlock talking to his brother on the phone, his terse voice telling her that he was not amused with her little teasing session.

Her mind wandered as she washed and then rinsed her hair, the smell of lavender permeating the sodden air. Sometimes it frightened her, how quickly Sherlock and her had gone from being at one another's throats, to be almost…a _couple_.

Her mind had been constantly screaming at her for days now, that what they were doing was so dangerous, so sooner or later her brother would be back, targeting either her or Sherlock.

The trap at the Old Palace had been too close, too prepared. She knew they were being watched; it had to be the only way Moriarty could have found out about their relationship.

In her mind she wondered how long it would last, regardless of whether her brother decided to kill one of them off.

Could it last?

She had always believed that Sherlock was not an emotional man, and in a way he still wasn't. He never allowed emotion to rule him in his work, and never in his personal life.

Until now.

She guessed the process of humanisation had started with John, the man who acted as the moral compass of Sherlock, reminding him that there were human lives at stake in his games. Human lives which could be lost if he failed.

* * *

It had escalated with her, although she wasn't sure how. Sometimes the lives of other people mystified her, especially the sillier things people did, making her impatient with them.

Her greatest problem when she was in the RAF was that she just couldn't conform, just couldn't accept orders from higher up, because she saw each flaw in them and believed another way was better. She had learned long ago that with her own special brand of insanity, she was better off alone.

Until she'd found a kindred soul, someone who was worse than her, really.

While she may not care about society, or how it perceived her actions, she did to some extent, care about the human lives at danger from society's predators. Like Sherlock, she didn't allow that care to rule her, but she did _care_. She was just very good at compartmentalising.

* * *

To Sherlock, it was always just a game, just a test of his intelligence, and the people merely pawns of the chess game. It was cold, and almost inhuman, but it was changing. Slowly, and without Sherlock truly aware of the changes, he was thawing.

In time, she hoped he would use that to enhance his strength, his intelligence, not to let it destroy him.

Their life was like a drug. It was addictive, and dangerous, and one day, Irene feared it would destroy the greatest man she had ever known. A man she needed like oxygen, someone she could relate to as well as care for, in a way she had never needed, cared for or related to before.

* * *

Just then, her wayward thoughts were interrupted by the slide of cold hands over her bare stomach, pulling her back against a rapidly moistening body. Shuddering, a slow smile stretching her lips as she relaxed against Sherlock trustingly, as the hot water soaked him, driving away the chill of the prison.

"You really shouldn't tease me, you know," Sherlock growled in her ear, "Although it may just have given my dear brother an unpleasant mental image to haunt his dreams."

"Unpleasant, huh?" Irene muttered, fighting hard not to gasp. With the water raining down on them, the heat and the pressure sensitised their skin, to the point of each touch becoming an exquisite agony of sensation, especially as Sherlock held her so tightly and intimately. "Well, if your brother finds it so _unpleasant_, maybe we should refrain from any activities which might fry his poor mind anymore," she murmured, trying to move away in the cramped shower stall. With Sherlock's lanky frame, they only just fit.

Sherlock's hands tightened around her waist and arm, forcing her back against him with an intensity which took her breath away. "Don't even think about it," he growled in her ear, just before she was spun around and backed the one step it took to reach the wall of the shower cubicle.

Irene gasped as the hard ceramic pressed into her spine, the stickiness of the wet tiles almost gluing her in place, as Sherlock leant down.

Her lips parted unconsciously, her lids already fluttering closed just as his lips brushed hers, so his next words, little more than a primitive growl, caressed her mouth.

"Two can play at this game, Irene, and now it's my turn to play,"

And with that he drew away, as her body cried out in disappointment. She tried to reach for him, but he slapped her hands away, and held them imprisoned above her head in one hand.

"Keep your hands to yourself," he grunted, as she felt his lips gently tug at her earlobe, before ghosting over her neck. He kept up the torturous game of not quite-caresses and fleeting kisses over her body, as she fought to keep in her moans, determined not to let him see her weaken.

Like he had said, two could play at this game.

* * *

She fought to concentrate over the heat building between them, fiery and burning, a prickling urgency beginning to take hold.

She allowed herself to moan, shifting away from the wall to the door, as Sherlock glanced up with a triumphant expression, and stood gracefully, pressing her back against the door.

"Give in yet?" he gasped out, just as Irene smirked wickedly.

"Not a chance," she replied, very carefully shifting her abdomen up, and against his body, making him bite his lip in an attempt to avoid crying out.

Behind her, Irene felt for the door handle of the cubicle, while she slid the other down Sherlock's torso, lightly brushing her lips over his. He clung to them, trying to kiss her properly but she evaded him, smiling triumphantly as he cried out when her hand glided over him.

"Getting a bit…hard for you to resist, honey?" she asked mockingly, just as he growled and tried to trap her against the door. She opened it, stepping backwards until she was out of the cubicle, the air of the bathroom cold compared to the heat of the shower and Sherlock's body.

The double entendre was clearly not lost on the man now following her with a kind of fell intent in his eyes, as she backed up to the bathroom door, smiling.

Eyes full of his lanky, deliciously aroused body, Irene found her back hit the hard surface of the door, mind slowly unravelling now.

Her little plan had all but disappeared, as her eyes roved over his jet-black hair plastered to his skin, in damp curls; moisture gleaming off his alabaster-coloured skin, moving with an almost feline, predatory grace.

"I want you, now," he growled, as she nearly groaned from the pure lust dripping from the man's voice. He knew perfectly well what that did to her.

"You cheat," she gasped, just as he reached for her. Their lips met and fused at last, hungrily caressing and exploring, tongues heatedly twining as he shoved her back into the door. Her fingernails dug into the flesh of his shoulder blades, as he yanked her feet out from under her, impaling her on him before she could do more than moan.

She broke the kiss, shuddering and wide-eyed as he grinned mirthlessly.

"Game over, Irene," he growled, before taking her weight in his arms, opening the door and heading for the bed.

* * *

"We're still wet," Irene breathlessly pointed out, just as he laid her down, his body still deep within hers.

"We'll dry soon enough," he replied, strained. His control at being inside her after all the woman's infernal teasing was rapidly disintegrating. "Now shut up, woman, and kiss me."

Any reply Irene would have made was drowned in the scalding kiss he pressed on her, rocking his hips relentlessly, finally relieving some of the pent-up frustration of the morning as she arched and ran her nails down his back like a cat.

They did, indeed, dry quickly, tumbling amidst the sheets for hours before they finally collapsed, sated and slumped in each other's arms.

* * *

Irene lay in Sherlock's arms, his fingers gently tracing a pattern on her shoulder, arms completely enfolding her while one of his long, athletic legs was bent over hers, utterly surrounding her. He pressed a kiss to her hair, as she sighed.

"We need to get up. Our flight's in an hour and a half," she muttered, stirring sleepily. Sherlock nuzzled her neck, surprisingly gentle considering the new collection of love bites he'd left on her skin.

"Not yet," he murmured, holding her tighter. For once, his mind was free and clear, and he was oddly reluctant to leave this peace just yet. He would soon, but for now he was enjoying this unexpected peace.

They stared out the window at the stormy Belarusian sky, the grey clouds overlaying the icy sky, as snow began to fall and the wind rose.

For some reason, the sight made Irene shiver.

A storm was coming.


	19. Let The Games Begin

The Broken Tango

Chapter 19

* * *

Sherlock and Irene flew back to London, both heaving a mutual sigh of relief when they made it home. Irene savoured the busy rush of the traffic around her, the crowds of people jostling her as they passed.

Compared to Minsk, London was almost tropical.

It was mid-afternoon and the flat was empty, John obviously out.

The moment the door closed, she knew something was wrong.

Sherlock was restless, almost grumpy. Not that he wasn't grumpy anyway, but this was twice as bad as usual.

Bored.

And a bored Sherlock Holmes was never a good thing.

* * *

Irene unpacked her overnight bag and tidied away some of the junk cluttering the kitchen table. Not that John hadn't had a good cleanup, as some of the papers from two weeks ago had now disappeared.

She could feel Sherlock's glare on her back, as she cleared some of the lab equipment away, before she heard the rustle of material.

She turned around to see Sherlock shrugging back into his coat, tugging on his gloves.

"Barts or Scotland Yard?" she asked, one eyebrow cocked. He smirked, and looked down.

"The former. There haven't been any good murders for at least a week," he huffed. "See you soon."

Shaking her head wearily, Irene turned back to her cleaning. Time passed and she decided to take a shower.

Once in the familiar, homely bathroom she heard the door open and close, the footsteps heavier.

She groaned, wondering what Sherlock had brought home.

She washed quickly and slipped into her bedroom, catching a glimpse of Sherlock opening the fridge door just as she closed hers.

Deciding to catch a nap, seeing as she probably wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight knowing Sherlock, she was vaguely aware of Sherlock moving around outside her room before she relinquished herself to sleep.

* * *

Sherlock showered and changed into his plain grey pyjamas and blue silk robe, before deciding to check on Irene. He slipped into her room, where she lay on her bed, the sleeve of her oversized Oxford jumper slipping down one shoulder, her long hair splayed over the pillows.

Her chest rose and fell regularly, her eyelids fluttering in sleep as he sat on the bed beside her and just looked at her, watching her sleep.

He was getting restless, impatient. Moriarty was so close to revealing himself, so close to making a mistake that Sherlock constantly felt on tenterhooks, like a person poised to jump over a gap but frozen at the last second without any momentum or energy lost.

Eventually he stood, and wandered back into the kitchen. He checked on the new specimen currently residing in the fridge as of an hour ago, and recovered his precious lab equipment from the cupboard, ready for his next experiment after a suitable amount of time elapsed.

Now thoroughly bored, Sherlock trudged to his laptop and checked his emails, before lethargically checking John's blog.

A moment later he frowned, stiffening with pure, righteous outrage.

'_Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'_

The cheeky git! Spectacularly ignorant indeed!

And absolutely nothing at all about his analytical deductions, or how what he did was an exact science for God's sake!

Sighing through his teeth, mumbling about the stupidity of boring, ordinary people like his flatmate, he typed in a pithy reply before slamming his laptop shut.

God, anyone would have guessed he was some kind of romantic hero and not an analytical genius!

Now highly bad-tempered, Sherlock slouched in his chair, eyes closed as he pondered what to do now. He was just so BORED!

No case, one flatmate comatose, the other out on a dull date with a dull woman, and his newest arch-nemesis still hugging the shadows.

He sighed and opened his eyes, their lethargic gaze eventually alighting on the Army Browning L198 sitting on the desk beside John's laptop.

A feline grin stretched Sherlock's lips as he reached for it. He was a bored sociopath, after all.

* * *

John closed the front door of 221B Baker Street with a contented sigh. He'd just had a really good time with Sarah, just a nice, ordinary evening out for dinner with no Chinese smugglers or kidnap attempts.

She had even agreed to another date, going for drinks in a couple of days.

Peace.

The sound of a gunshot interrupted that peace, as he flinched and then groaned. Sherlock and Irene were back tonight. What were they doing?

Did they have a fight and now they were trying to shoot the hell out of each other?

He raced up the stairs, briefly glimpsing Sherlock slouched in one of the armchairs, absentmindedly pointing his gun at the opposite wall, and firing haphazardly, before his military training had him ducking with his hands over his ears to protect the eardrums.

"What the hell are you doing!" he yelled angrily, as Sherlock lowered the gun again and sighed.

"Bored," was the sulky reply.

"What?" John asked, not entirely sure he had heard right. Bored?

"Bored!" Sherlock leapt from his chair, shooting again.

"No-!" John ducked again, covering his ears as Sherlock's cries of "Bored!" coincided with several more gunshots and some impressive behind the back marksmanship. John rushed forward to tug the gun away before he hit something other than plaster, to find Sherlock moodily handing it over. He quickly switched the safety on, unloaded the magazine and checked the firing chamber was clear.

"Don't know what's got into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them," Sherlock muttered grumpily, walking over to the spray-painted face now peppered with bullet holes.

"So you take it out on the wall?" John asked incredulously, as he put the gun safely out of Sherlock's reach.

"The wall had it coming," his irritable flatmate muttered, fingering on of the smoking holes in the plaster and wallpaper, before collapsing dramatically onto the sofa.

John inhaled deeply, and started to undo his jacket.

"What about that Russian case?" he asked, slinging his jacket onto a chair and heading for the kitchen. Popcorn was all very well, but he was starving.

"Belarus? Open and shut domestic murder…not worth my time," Sherlock replied, sliding into a more comfortable position. And awkward silence hung in the air for a moment, before Sherlock added sullenly, "And he kept looking funny at Irene. I didn't like it."

John had to strange his snort of laughter, at Sherlock's tone of voice. He sounded like a stroppy child who was having his favourite toy taken away.

"Is someone getting a bit protective?" John needled, in a singsong voice. Sherlock's head snapped round with the speed of a hunting cat scenting prey.

"No I am not. Like I said, open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time," he replied tersely, as John smirked.

"Oh, shame!" he murmured, before wandering into the kitchen. Irene emerged from her bedroom, sleepy-eyed and dishevelled, her long hair falling in tumbled waves over her bare shoulder.

"Hey John. Where's the war?" she asked, fiddling with her iPod absentmindedly.

"Sherlock got bored," he replied by way of explanation, as Irene rolled her eyes. "Good trip, or do I not want to know?"

"You don't want to know," Irene commented with a smirk, before walking into the living room.

John shuddered. "Anything in? I'm starving."

As Irene sat down in the armchair opposite Sherlock, she waited for the exclamation of horror she was sure was about to come.

"Oh, f…!"

She had to stifle a giggle, as she glanced sideways at Sherlock who was acting like he hadn't heard despite the partially amused quirk to his upper lip.

The fridge door opened and shut once more, John whispering incoherently, before he stormed back into the living room.

"Breathe, John," she muttered, eyes fixed on her iPod screen. He ignored her.

"A severed head!"

"Just tea for me, thanks," Sherlock called nonchalantly.

"No, there's a head in the fridge," John clarified, walking back into the room.

"Yes?" Sherlock looked around, clearly wondering what the problem was.

"A bloody head!"

"Well where else was I supposed to put it? You don't mind, do you?" he suddenly seemed to remember some form of social grace, at which Irene just rolled her eyes.

"Now he remembers," she muttered, musing over what song to play before the inevitable explosion from John.

"Got it from Bart's morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death," Sherlock finished explaining, as Irene watched John visibly fight for patience. "I see you've written up the taxi driver case."

The comment, accompanied by a negligent shake of the hand towards John's laptop, distracted the ex-Army doctor, as he nodded. "Er…yes."

"_A Study In Pink_. Nice," Sherlock muttered, as John took a seat beside Irene.

"Well, you know. Pink lady, pink case, pink phone, there was a lot of pink," John tried to justify it as Sherlock picked up an arts magazine. Irene noted the cover, something about a lost Vermeer, before turning back to her iPod.

She was still trying not to laugh.

"Did you like it?" John asked eventually, almost cautiously.

"Um…no," Sherlock snapped.

"Why not? I thought you'd be flattered,"

"Flattered! '_Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'_" the detective quoted, at which Irene let out a low whistle.

Ouch.

"Hang on, I didn't mean that in-" John tried to dig himself out of the hole he was in, but Sherlock interrupted.

"Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way! Look it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister-" he gestured expansively.

"Yeah, I know." John looked away.

"David Cameron, by the way," Irene chipped in helpfully.

"-who's sleeping with who…" Sherlock continued, oblivious.

"It's 'whom', Sherlock, not 'who'," she continued to bait him playfully, as he glared at her.

"Or that the Earth goes round the Sun," John snapped back in, at which Sherlock groaned.

"Digging your own grave there," Irene murmured, standing up to leave.

Oh God, not that again! It's not important!" Sherlock exploded, at which John sat up. It had the air of an old argument about it.

"Not important? It's primary school stuff. Irene back me up here!" he looked at the younger woman imploringly but Irene just smiled and backed away from her friend, and her somnolent lover on the sofa.

"Oh no, this is your fight. I don't like cockfights," she muttered, before disappearing into her room to check her email.

* * *

John sighed, before launching back into their argument. "How can you not know that the Earth goes around the Sun!"

"Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it," his obstinate friend wiped his hands over his eyes, irritation bleeding into his tones now.

"Deleted it?"

Sherlock sat up, his patience run dry. He was just not in the mood right now. "Listen, this is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that was useful. _Really _useful," he pointed to his curly head while he explained before his gaze drifted to the window. "Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

"But it's the solar system!" John doggedly continued, unable to see how that could be unimportant.

"Oh, hell! What does it matter! So we go round the sun. If we went around the moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference!" the younger man retorted, losing his cool entirely now.

At that point, Irene poked her head round the kitchen archway with a raised brow and an incredulous expression. "So you don't know anything about the solar system, but you know a nursery rhyme? Yeah, seeing your priorities now."

"Yeah, not helping, Irene," John sighed before she disappeared again, either banished by Sherlock's murderous glare or more likely, gone off to celebrate her pointed triumph.

"All that matters to me is the work! Without that, my brain rots," Sherlock ran his hands through his curly hair, pulling at it as he felt his brain decomposing, losing its practised efficiency. The peace of the hotel room in Belarus had long since faded. "Put that in your blog. Or, better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world!"

John looked over at his friend, feeling angry and impatient now where he had been relaxed and content. Sometimes Sherlock was so childish and just Goddamned impossible that….!

* * *

John stood and grabbed his jacket, before heading to the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked over his shoulder, emerging from his sulk on the sofa.

"Out. I need some air," John replied brusquely, before walking out the flat. Sherlock slumped back into his sulk just as a knock came at the door.

"Whoo hoo." Mrs Hudson poked her head in and looked around, a shopping bag in her hand. "Have you two had a little domestic?"

Irene appeared from the kitchen, greeting their landlady with a smile. "Domestic is one way of putting it, Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock flipped over, and onto his side, before standing and walking over the coffee table to watch at the window.

Eying him from the kitchen as she listened to Mrs Hudson's chatter, Irene smiled as she saw the concern hiding behind the bored façade in Sherlock's eyes.

He was wrong. Work wasn't the only thing which mattered to Sherlock Holmes.

"Ooh, it's a bit nippy out there. He should have wrapped himself up a bit more," the landlady muttered, clearing space in all Sherlock's mess to unpack the milk and tea she had bought for them. Irene took the change.

"Look at that, Irene. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it hateful?" Sherlock muttered from the window, as she left the kitchen and came to stand by his side. Unconsciously, Sherlock's arm came out and pulled her against him, so they both stood at the window, looking out at the oddly tranquil London night.

"Something will happen, Sherlock. Soon," she murmured, resting her head back on Sherlock's collarbone.

"A nice murder will cheer you up," Mrs Hudson murmured cheerily as she crossed the living room to go downstairs.

"Mmm. Can't come too soon," he muttered, his arm tightening around Irene's waist, both uncaring about the beaming eyes of their landlady watching them.

"Hey, what have you done to my bloody wall! I'm putting this on your rent young man!" Mrs Hudson exploded, gazing in shock at the bullet holes and spray paint on the wall paper before she stormed downstairs. Sherlock grinned before sighing again wearily.

Then all hell broke loose.

* * *

Irene found herself showered in broken glass as the windows imploded, instinct and military training throwing her to the ground with her hands over her ears. Apart from a slight sting on her cheek, she was unharmed as she stood slowly, Sherlock rising from the floor beside her shakily.

"Irene, are you alright?" he asked, crossing to her urgently, and tilting her face up to the light.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. It's just a scratch," she muttered, pushing him away as she warily walked back to the window, looking out on the pandemonium below.

People were screaming and moaning, the house opposite almost completely destroyed.

"Sherlock? Irene?" Mrs Hudson's weak voice came from the stairs as they rushed out to the landing.

"Its alright, Mrs Hudson. We'll sort this out, just go home," Irene soothingly patted the older lady's arm as they helped her back to her flat.

"All that broken glass. Oh dear," Mrs Hudson worried her bottom lip as Sherlock disappeared silently upstairs once more.

* * *

Sherlock stood at the ruined window, alert eyes watching the scene of utter pandemonium below. Ambulances swarmed everywhere, police cars just arriving while people huddled under blankets with medics.

Not surprisingly, he got a text from Lestrade a second later, telling him to stay in his flat until they knew what caused this.

Sherlock's eyes studied the trajectory of the shrapnel, the size of the blast zone and the damage caused, only now being put out by fire engines.

A gas explosion, or something made to look like it.

His eyes narrowed, but he could see no reason for anyone to blow up that row of houses. No, gas explosion was the most logical solution right now.

Footsteps behind him had him turning to find Irene in the doorway, looking white but determined.

"What do you think?" she asked, the cold winter night air now sneaking into the flat through the gaping holes in the windows.

Sherlock saw the cut on her cheek and felt his chest tighten. Without answering, he took her hand and led her to the sofa, sitting her down while he fetched the first aid kit and cleaned the slight incision.

She flinched from the harsh iodine, but held still under his practised hands until he sat back.

"You should be alright now. It's not deep-" he murmured, as she shook her head.

"Sherlock."

"It won't need stitches," he continued like she hadn't spoken, but she caught his hands as they went to put the first aid kit aside.

"Sherlock! What do you think caused this?" she asked again, refusing to drop eye contact as his blue ones bored into hers.

"Gas explosion is the most likely explanation," he finally said, quietly. Her eyebrow rose.

"'Most likely'?" she repeated, frowningly. "So what do we do now? What about John?"

"He would have been long gone outside the blast radius by now. He'll know about it soon enough, on the morning news," Sherlock reclaimed his hands from hers, standing up and moving back to the window. Irene stood too, moving with him until they both stood at the window, looking down at the crisis below.

"What do we do now?" she repeated her question, as Sherlock's arms came around her waist, pulling her back against him. Her slight shivering from the cold stopped as she was enfolded in the heat from his body.

"We wait," he murmured in her ear, glad she was in his arms. An exhilarated smile lit his lips, as he held her tightly.

He had a feeling there was more to this than met the eye.

* * *

**Yeah, I own nada, especially not the Great Game, or Sherlock, or John or Irene either. I'm bringing in Mycroft next chapter. Irene vs. Mycroft, ohh I can't wait!**


	20. A Summons

The Broken Tango

Chapter 20

* * *

Irene stirred fitfully, curled up on the sofa beneath a blanket. Sherlock, fully dressed and contemplatively staring at his violin, sneaked a glance at her, so catlike and peaceful.

She frowned, clearly reaching out for him, before her eyes fluttered open. She spotted him instantly. "Did you actually sleep at all last night?" she asked, archly.

"Good morning to you too," he muttered, pointing to a steaming cup of coffee on the side table. "Morning dose of caffeine before you get any grumpier."

"I am not grumpy," she sighed, sitting up and pushing the blanket away. She reached for the warm elixir, letting out a sigh of pure heavenly bliss before putting it back down.

"Have you texted John at all?" she asked, but as soon as she glanced at Sherlock she knew the answer.

"No need, he'll be here soon enough when he sees the news. Why should he worry?" her lover asked, frowningly as she rolled her eyes.

"Of course. Why would our flatmate worry when there's been a gas explosion in our street?" she asked sarcastically, taking another few sips of coffee before wandering towards the kitchen.

As soon as she had put her mug in the sink, two strong hands took hold of her waist and spun her around, backing her against the counter. Sherlock arched a brow as he lowered his lips to hers. "Someone clearly got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

Irene groaned, but didn't reply as her mouth was suddenly rather vigorously occupied. She slid her hands up his lapels to his hair, combing her fingers through his mess of curly hair before pulling back breathlessly.

"You git," she gasped. Sherlock tried to look innocent and failed. Badly.

"You had a drop of coffee on your lip," he offered by way of explanation. She glowered at him.

"So you felt the need to just kiss it off?"

"It did seem the most expeditious way of removing it before it fell,"

"I'm sure-"

"Oh just shut up and kiss me," Sherlock growled, cutting off her argument, his fingers threading through her loose hair and dragged her lips back up to his. A rather violently cleared throat broke them apart, looking towards the sound of the noise.

Irene's eyes settled on a tall, well-dressed man of about mid forties, with receding brown hair, pleasant but inscrutable features and piercing eyes. He held a black umbrella in one hand, and a long overcoat slung over his other arm, watching them with the slightest twinkle of amusement.

"I do hope I'm not disturbing you, Sherlock," Mycroft Holmes smirked, his eyes on Irene as the two broke apart.

"Your hope is wasted," Sherlock breathed in annoyance.

"Your landlady let me come up. Seemed rather harried, poor thing," Mycroft continued. "And this must be the lovely Ms Adler?"

"Well, seeing as I'm the only other woman living here, that would be a logical assumption," Irene replied acerbically, a slight glimmer of appreciation in Sherlock's eyes as the two shook hands tentatively. "You're Sherlock's elder brother."

"And how do you suppose that, since I doubt my darling brother has told you about me?" Mycroft fixed her with beady eyes, all too familiar.

"One, your conversation as you interrupted us was indicative of close relationship but turned sour, most likely familial. Two, while you do not bear a significant resemblance to Sherlock, you do share the same eye colour and particular way of looking at someone, three you both share identical outer ears or pinna, which are only passed down through direct bloodline, which must make you either father and son, or more likely brothers. And fourth, you just told me Sherlock is your brother yourself," Irene finished her deduction with a satisfied smirk at the unease in Mycroft's eyes. He clearly wasn't used to having their little family party trick turned on him.

"Very nicely done," Sherlock muttered, folding his arms and openly smirking at the sight of his brother so discomfited.

"I have had an excellent teacher," she replied quickly, before turning back to Mycroft. "Anything specific we can help you with, Mr Holmes, or did you just drop by for some ritual humiliation?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I just dropped by to have a word with my brother…unless you two have a happy announcement for me to convey to Mummy?" he looked to his brother, and again Irene saw the slight resemblance in the way they carried themselves and the way they glowered at each other.

"No, I can't think of anything unless….but surely the day you decide to do the world a favour and throw yourself under a train should be an announcement you make to Mother by yourself?" Sherlock retorted mockingly, and Irene wanted to roll her eyes and sigh wearily.

"Play nice, little boys," she muttered condescendingly, patting Sherlock's arm before moving away, towards her bedroom. "I have to get changed."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, frowning. Irene raised an eyebrow as Mycroft wandered into the living room to sit down in one of the armchairs impatiently.

"_Someone_ needs to pay the rent, Sherlock. I promised one of those corporate vultures I'd pop in and have a look at their security today," she pressed a kiss to his cheek. She glanced at Sherlock, and then at his brother again, before smiling impishly. "And now the great mystery of where you learned to dance so well is solved."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, as she stretched up on her toes to whisper in his ear. "Do tell."

"Your brother taught you. The way he stands, feet exactly shoulder width apart would indicate either military or dance related, however the way they are slightly turned out would sway the balance in favour of dance. I would know, remember?" she grinned, loving the stupefied expression on Sherlock's face before she disappeared into her room.

* * *

Sherlock sighed as he finally joined his brother in the living room, taking a seat opposite the imposing Mycroft and picking up his violin so he had something to do with his hands.

Instead of wrapping them around his elder brother's neck.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock jumped straight in, holding up his violin and beginning to tune it.

"Two issues I wanted to address. One is a case, and the other is your relationship with Ms Adler," Mycroft replied softly, as Sherlock coldly stared him down.

"My private life is absolutely no concern of yours, Mycroft. Never has been, and never will be," he focussed on the gleaming, lovingly polished wood of his violin, to help keep his temper at bay. Only four people could really prod it: Lestrade, John, Mycroft and Irene.

In ascending order of regularity and severity.

"Unfortunately it is, brother dear. Sherlock, do you have any idea who that woman really is?" the elder Holmes sat up, glaring at his younger brother.

"I am perfectly well aware, probably more so than you-" Sherlock was momentarily distracted by the reappearance of Irene, and judging by the fire in her eyes, she had heard every word of the brothers' conversation.

She was stunningly dressed in a black pencil skirt, moulding to her flawless curves like water over rock, a white linen shirt tucked into the high-waisted garment. With the stylish black pumps and long, flowing hair she looked like the stereotypical sexy secretary.

"Playing nice, I trust, boys?" she asked, her tone not giving away that she had heard anything as she walked past Mycroft, and bent over Sherlock. He looked up at her, surprised, before she pulled him into a crushing, passionate kiss. He leaned into it, briefly returning her angry passion before she broke away, taking a seat beside him on the arm of the chair.

"Perfectly," Mycroft murmured, his voice strained. Sherlock inwardly grinned. "I was just commenting on Sherlock's extraordinary good luck over these past few months. Finding John, and now you…must be difficult living with a sociopath like my brother, though."

"No, not really. I mean, in between the frankly magnificent sex and the case solving, he can get fairly grumpy and he loves playing his violin at all hours of the night but really I can't complain or didn't your background checks tell you I was a borderline sociopath myself?" Irene replied sarcastically, making Sherlock both wince in contemptuous pity for his brother and smirk with joyful glee at how uncomfortable she was making him. It was obvious his dear brother did not like this conversation one bit.

* * *

Before the atmosphere could get anymore tense and awkward, John burst in, looking pale and worried.

All three looked at him as he stared at Irene and Sherlock like they were ghosts.

"John," Sherlock called, plucking a pizzicato note on his violin. Irene smiled welcomingly while Mycroft just watched the doctor coolly, twirling his umbrella between his fingers meditatively.

John took in the frankly bizarre sight of Sherlock, Irene and Mycroft sitting together like some odd family portrait, obviously ill at ease, as he tried to calm his racing heart and the gnawing fear that had risen up when he'd seen the news that morning.

And Irene was wearing a skirt. Definitely weird.

The last time he'd seen her wearing anything even resembling a skirt was that night they'd rescued her from the Old Palace.

"I saw it on the telly. Are you OK?" John asked, starting to unbutton his thin coat.

"Me? What?" Sherlock looked up from his violin, glancing towards the imploded windows before returning his gaze to his beloved violin. "Oh, yeah, fine."

"Irene wearing a skirt, we should take a photo for posterity," John muttered jokingly, as she glowered at him good-naturedly.

"I'll be kicking you up your posterior in a minute if you keep on," she growled, eliciting a slight smirk from Sherlock before the pair refocused their attention on Mycroft.

Watching them, John felt like he was watching two people in complete harmony with one another. Irene sat close to Sherlock on the arm of the chair; her arm stretched out behind his shoulders, just grazing his hair with her fingers, Sherlock's right shoulder pressing against her skirt clothed leg. They were just so physically attuned to one another, like two planets in orbit around each other, both making shifts in position to accommodate and match the other. He envied them that, one day hoped he could find something like it, maybe even with Sarah, that unconscious awareness of your partner's presence, as primal and simple and undeniable as Nature herself.

Even Mycroft and Sherlock unconsciously mirrored one another, with their relaxed positions and crossed legs. Harry and he had never been like that.

"Gas leak, apparently," Sherlock gestured to the ruined house opposite, now shielded from their eyes by the curtains drawn across the gaping holes in the windows. He absentmindedly strummed another pizzicato note on his violin as he focussed on his brother again. "I can't."

"Can't?" Mycroft repeated, clearly not believing his little brother.

"Stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time," Sherlock clarified coolly, as John watched disbelievingly. That was a big fat lie right there.

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance," Mycroft replied softly, obviously irritating his younger brother as the youngest Holmes looked up and asked rudely.

"How's the diet?" was punctuated by another note on the violin, and John could see the restrained laughter in Irene's eyes. Their eyes met, and they grinned. Clearly no one in this room really liked Mycroft Holmes any more than the others did.

"Fine," Mycroft said repressively, before appealing to John. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John? Since I doubt Miss Adler is going to be of much assistance?"

"An amazing deduction," Irene muttered under her breath.

"What?" John asked, still shocked by the devastation around him. It reminded him too much of the war.

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent," Mycroft sighed wearily, as Sherlock continued tuning his violin.

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly, obviously bored with his brother now.

"No, no, no, no, no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any amount of time, not with the Korean elections so…" Mycroft trailed off, as John's head snapped around, Irene narrowed her eyes and Sherlock looked up inquiringly; just daring his brother to finish that sentence and finally admit how powerful he really was without the false modesty. No joy however. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you? Besides a case like this, it requires…legwork."

Sherlock strummed an irritated, tortured note on the violin, making everyone including him wince, before changing the subject.

"How's Sarah, John? How was the lilo?" he asked, without looking at the older man who was nursing his sore neck.

Mycroft checked his pocket watch. "Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa."

Sherlock glanced up at his friend piercingly. "Oh yes, of course."

"How…Oh, never mind," John sighed, before sitting down. Irene decided to take pity on him.

"You just exhibited pain in your upper neck vertebrae, commonly seen in people who sleep in awkward positions which place pressure on your spine, like on a lilo or sofa. The height of the discomfort negated the first option," she explained, as John rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, Irene, I haven't had my morning tea yet. Don't fry my brain anymore, please," he teased, sighing as he collapsed into a chair. Sherlock grinned, as Mycroft watched the interaction between the three with detached interest.

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became…pals, and now after Ms Adler's arrival. What are they like to live with, hellish I imagine?" Mycroft asked lightly, but all three tensed at the question.

"I don't get much sleep," John finally answered cheekily, with a sly glance at his two flatmates, "but I'm never bored."

"Good, that's good isn't it?" the older Holmes smiled unctuously, making John and Irene's skin crawl uncomfortably. Immune to his brother's effect on people, Sherlock just frowned at him.

Mycroft leaned to the side and picked up a manila folder he'd brought with him, standing in front of Sherlock and proffering it.

Sherlock just glared at him, swiping up his violin bow.

"Watch where you're thwacking that thing, please Sherlock!" Irene guided the bow away from her thigh with one elegant finger, pointedly raising a brow. Sherlock grinned.

"Now there's an interesting thought," he murmured, making Irene roll her eyes resignedly.

Mycroft pursed his lips in annoyance, a little grimace of pain showing as he rotated his jaw. He gave up on Sherlock and Irene, handing the folder to John instead.

"Andrew West, known as 'Westie' to his friends. Civil servant. Found dead on the tracks at Battersea station this morning with his head smashed in," Mycroft explained. Irene listened in, regardless of her growing dislike for the man, as did Sherlock.

"Jumped in front of a train?" John asked, taking the folder and flicking through it.

"Seems the logical assumption," Mycroft nodded.

"But?" John continued expectantly.

"But?" Mycroft repeated amusedly.

"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident," John explained haltingly. Irene wanted to cheer him on.

"Huh," Sherlock, now engaged in polishing his bow, smirked at his friend's intelligence and so early in the morning too!

"The MoD is working on a new missile defence system, the Bruce-Partington Programme it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick," his brother continued to explain.

John chuckled. "That wasn't very clever."

Sherlock chuckled again.

"Particularly with the government's track record for losing things like disks and memory sticks," Irene muttered acerbically.

"It's not the only copy," Mycroft sighed patiently, with a patently forced smile. "But it is secret and missing."

"Top secret?" John questioned, with just a bit of derision in his tone.

"Very. We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands. You've got to find those plans, Sherlock."

Sherlock and Irene were still sat on the chair behind him, Irene absentmindedly playing with one of Sherlock's stray curls while he meditatively cleaned his bow with a cloth.

"Don't make me order you," Mycroft wheedled patronisingly, looking down on his little brother. Sherlock threw down his cloth, picked up his violin and set it on his shoulder arrogantly.

"I'd like to see you try," he replied superciliously, Irene sat behind him with an elegantly raised eyebrow, challenging and confident. John smirked behind Mycroft's back.

"Think it over," Mycroft tried one last time to bring his brother to heel, before turning to John, hand outstretched. "Goodbye, John. See you very soon."

John gripped the other man's hand loosely, feeling like a fly in a spider's web, with the spider eying him up calculatingly. He had a nasty feeling he'd be seeing Mycroft again soon too.

"Goodbye, Ms Adler. Try not to run my brother too ragged," Mycroft elegantly sketched a small bow in Irene's direction, who only smiled predatorily.

"I make no promises." she replied distantly, yet the insinuation was there. John held back the giggle at the obvious discomfort of the older man before he retrieved his coat.

At that point, Sherlock started repeating a series of notes rapidly, grating and just plain annoying. John stared at his odd friend, as Irene winced.

Mycroft didn't even waste a glance at his brother before he left the flat, as Sherlock sawed one last note with a sour expression before swiping his bow away.

"What did we say about the bow, Sherlock!" Irene yelped as it connected with her thigh, _again_.

* * *

John sat back down again, clasping his hands together as he eyed Sherlock. "Why did you lie?" he asked. Sherlock looked up as Irene stood to go to the window, peering out over the street, watching Mycroft leave. "You've got nothing on. Not a single case, that's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, now scratching the back of his neck with his bow.

John's mouth formed a silent 'oh' of understanding as he nodded. "Nice."

The bow paused in its movement over the skin of Sherlock's neck.

"Sibling rivalry, now we're getting somewhere," John continued, with a smirk.

"I really don't like your brother," Irene remarked from the window just as Sherlock's phone buzzed.

He retrieved it from his pocket, and held it to his ear. "Sherlock Holmes."

Irene and John watched him closely, as a childishly happy expression stole over his pristine face. "Of course. How can I refuse?"

Sherlock stood in a sudden whirl of motion, reverently placing his violin where he had just been sitting and putting his phone away. "Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?"

"If you want me to?" John stood, not entirely sure after their fight last night.

"Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger," Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf, looking towards Irene next. You too, Irene."

"Oh no, I've got work to do, remember?" she shook her head, although obviously tempted. Sherlock smiled knowingly.

"You know you want to. Those boring consultancy jobs can wait," he murmured, moving away from the door and closer to Irene. Deciding he really didn't need to see this, John disappeared to the landing.

"Sherlock, you're incorrigible. Someone has to pay the rent while you're off, defeating the evil villain," Irene rolled her eyes as that insufferably sexy man stalked towards her, snagging her coat from the side in the process.

"Dull," he scoffed. He stopped and sighed, regretfully. "This is for your own good, Irene. Think of me as preserving what little sanity you have left."

"What-?" she went to ask, but Sherlock's shoulder bowled into her midriff, his arm clamping over her legs so she was slung over his shoulder. "SHERLOCK!"

He carried her out onto the first landing, as she struggled.

"Sherlock, if this is you trying to preserve my sanity, you going the wrong way about it!" she snapped grumpily.

"How so?" the detective asked curiously, grinning.

"Because I'm probably going to be sent to an asylum for criminal insanity after I strangle you in a fit of irritation! Your brother would probably give me a medal!" Irene growled threateningly, as Sherlock finally let her down.

He backed her against the stair balustrade, pinning her there with his hands.

"You can be my consultant for the day. Please?" he murmured against her lips, very gently teasing her. She stiffened but then relaxed into him.

"You manipulative sonofa-" her insult was cut off by Sherlock's lips as he kissed her, rough and fast before releasing her. "Fine, fine I'm coming but if Mrs Hudson throws us out for missing the rent, I'm blaming you and making you do consultancy jobs for a year!"

"Of course," Sherlock grinned, holding out her coat. She slid into it, smiling despite herself. As she went to walk down the stairs, he caught her arm. She turned back, and was surprised by the embarrassed look in his eyes now. "Um, I've got something for you. I-I meant to give…it to you last night but events rather got in the way."

He produced a soft leather pouch from his pocket, pressing it into her hand. She uncoiled it curiously, before pure delight lit her eyes up.

"Of course if you don't…I mean I thought it appropriate-" Sherlock clearly didn't know how to react, so Irene cut him off by throwing her arms around his neck.

"Shut up and…thank you," she whispered, kissing him soundly. He grinned against her lips, pulling her against him when John's yell broke them apart.

"OI! Come on or we'll be late," he called warningly, before the door closed again. Irene smiled shyly, almost young again, before slipping the leather pouch back into her pocket. "Thank you," she murmured again, planting an affectionate peck on Sherlock's cheek before walking down the stairs. On the last flight, she darted a mischievous look over her shoulder before sitting sidesaddle on the banister. Sherlock groaned as she slid down the banister, alighting with graceful accuracy.

"And people call me a child," he moaned, before closing the door of 221B Baker Street behind, joining his friend and lover in the waiting taxi.

* * *

**More soon! Oh that was fun to write, Heehee. But what did Sherlock give to Irene? Ideas?**


	21. Put Your Claws Away, Pussycat

The Broken Tango

Chapter 21

**Did I hear someone call for some Irene vs. Anderson? That'll have to wait for later, but I can promise some Donovan vs. Irene, and lets' just say Irene doesn't appreciate anyone insulting her man, ;P**

* * *

Irene couldn't help but finger the leather pouch in her pocket, just waiting to be used. She would never have imagined Sherlock would give her something like this, something useful and relevant.

She had to restrain a slight grin at the thought. Of course, that was Sherlock all over. She couldn't imagine him buying anything so mundane or empty as flowers or chocolates for a woman, in fact she couldn't imagine him buying anything at all for a woman.

So this was something to be cherished, to be used and used well.

And something told her she would be using it a lot in the days to come.

Unthinkingly, she huddled slightly closer to Sherlock, their hands twining in the gap between their thighs, neither one noticing John's knowing grin as he turned his head to look out the window.

* * *

The taxi ride passed in silence, until they pulled up outside Scotland Yard. The revolving sign flashed in the wintry sun, as the trio piled out. Lestrade was waiting for them in the foyer as they walked through the large revolving doors, bypassing the security gates.

"Uncle," Irene warmly kissed his smooth cheek when she reached him, John nodding politely in greeting. Sherlock, as pure usual, just jumped straight in.

"Alright, what have we got?" he asked, the silver-haired Inspector's brow rising in weary resignation.

"Give the man a chance, Sherlock, we only just got here," John smirked ruefully at Lestrade, as the man led them to the lifts.

"You'll find out soon enough," he grunted, the four of them crowding into the small space. Sherlock's frown turned dark, as he shot his usual glare at John, who answered it with a teasing smirk.

Eying all three men up, Irene rolled her eyes heavily. "Boys, behave," she muttered under her breath.

As they went up the floors, Lestrade finally broke the tense silence tentatively.

"Your mother called," he looked down at his feet, already imagining Irene's sarcastic roll of the eyes.

"Did you put the phone down?" she asked coolly. He shook his head, sighing. "Then you should have."

The lift doors opened before anyone else could speak, revealing the busy offices of the SOCO unit. Giving up on his intransigent niece, Lestrade led the way out.

"You like the funny cases, don't you?" he asked Sherlock, the taller man following him closely as they walked through the office, attracting the usual stares, which started out curious then resigned or downright hostile when they saw Sherlock. Lestrade continued, leading them towards his office. "The surprising ones."

"Obviously," Sherlock replied.

"You'll love this. That explosion," Lestrade began, both Irene's and Sherlock's ear pricking up at the mention of the gas explosion of last night.

"Gas leak, yes?" Sherlock asked, interest piqued, exchanging a narrow glare with Sally Donovan as they passed her desk.

"No." Lestrade's voice was audibly satisfied, almost slightly gleeful that he knew something Sherlock didn't, if only tempered by his morality, and the fact that it had torn apart a busy street in London.

"No?" Sherlock repeated, frowning. Listening, but silent, John and Irene followed the two men into the office, the door closing behind them. It helped to block out some of the cacophony of noise from the offices, blocking out the hostility Irene could feel like a thousand insects crawling over her skin.

"No. Made to look like one."

"What?" John asked, incredulous. Irene felt a shiver run down her spine, but not of fear.

Of exhilaration.

"Any bodies found in the building that you're not telling the media?" Irene asked, tugging her gloves off. Lestrade shook his head.

"Nope, no bodies," he replied quickly. Irene glanced at Sherlock and John, before voicing what she was sure they were all thinking.

"So not a homicide, or terror attack as such. So what motive for blowing up an empty flat in the middle of London?" she mused, glancing at Sherlock.

He shook his head. "Not enough data to assume anything yet, Irene."

Lestrade opened a drawer in his desk, retrieving a medium sized envelope, and continuing his explanation. "Hardly anything left of the place, except a strong box. A very strong box, and inside it was this," he finished explaining, holding it out to Sherlock.

"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock asked, taking it in his hands. It was heavy, something, some item of substantial weight in the paper.

"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" Lestrade replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Except when you were dealing with a high-function sociopath with little to no social graces. "We've X-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped."

"How reassuring," Sherlock quipped dryly, taking it over to a lamp and swiping up the letter opener from Lestrade's desk.

The detective held it up to the light, squinting at its' detail while the other three waited patiently.

_Good quality paper, heavy, thick…_

"Nice stationary," he mused aloud.

_Particular grain in the paper identifies it as Czech…_

"Bohemian."

"What?" Lestrade asked, confused.

"From the Czech Republic," Sherlock explained. Irene moved to his side, careful not to obstruct his light as she looked at the envelope too, or rather its contents. Something brightly coloured lay inside, rectangular but with rounded edges not sharp corners. But what?

Sherlock's eyes ran over the handwriting, gauging the weight on the nib, the ink, the gender of the writer.

"No fingerprints?" He called over to Lestrade, eyes not flickering from the paper's surface.

"No."

"Clearly someone who doesn't want to be recognised, and who knows what they're doing," Irene murmured.

"Obviously," Sherlock scoffed, earning him a glare from his lover. "She used a fountain pen. Parker Duofold, Meridian nib."

"She?" John asked, frowning quizzically.

"Obviously," the detective replied icily, turning the envelope over and reaching for the letter opener. John sighed impatiently.

"Obviously," he muttered mockingly, used to feeling left out of the intellectual circus which was the consulting detective's thought processes.

Irene felt her nerves stretched taut as Sherlock carefully slit the letter open, peering at its edges before looking inside.

From the slight fleeting look of surprise on his face, she guessed it wasn't good.

A pink iPhone slid into his palm, new and shining, John's face paling with incredulity.

"That…that's the phone. The pink phone," he stuttered, disbelievingly. Irene frowned.

"What, from _The Study In Pink_?" Lestrade's voice too sounded disbelieving, as he watched them from his desk.

"Well, obviously, it's not the same phone, but it's supposed to look like…" Sherlock began to explain, before Lestrade's words filtered into his brain, along with indignation. He turned around. "_Study In Pink_, you read his blog?"

Irene exchanged a meaningful glance with John, one that clearly said: _You're in trouble now…_

Irene was trying not to snigger.

* * *

Donovan wandered in, to retrieve a folder from Lestrade's desk, and the way she lingered and shot a scornful, if entirely ignored glare at the detective, told Irene she was eavesdropping and just waiting for a chance to throw an insult at Sherlock.

Talk about your sour grapes.

"Of course I read his blog. We all do," Lestrade replied cheerily, smirking at the detective's discomfort. "Do you really not know that the Earth goes round the sun?"

Donovan took that chance to snigger meanly, looking at Sherlock like he was a rat, and Irene decided she really didn't like the woman. Every time they turned up at a crime scene to help, she was always rude and dismissive despite seeing for herself what Sherlock could do. Yes, he wasn't the easiest person to deal with, but that was no excuse for the woman's behaviour.

Clearly she had never been raised with any type of manners.

Irene moved closer to Donovan as she walked to the door, inhaling loudly before scrunching up her nose theatrically.

"Dear God, Donovan! Been borrowing Anderson's deodorant again? How sweet of him to lend you some, although judging by the state of your knees and elbows; and not forgetting that nasty looking mark on your neck, you obviously needed it," Irene remarked coolly, making the woman glare at her, enraged and discomfited.

Sherlock and John smirked, as Lestrade sighed wearily. "Irene!" he barked exasperatedly.

"You should keep your dog on a tighter leash, Freak," Donovan spat spitefully at Sherlock. Irene rolled her eyes.

"Pity Anderson doesn't keep you on yours, or does he I wonder?" she drawled, eying the woman's neck. Donovan flushed and left in a hurry.

Lestrade sighed again, but didn't reprimand Irene further, just shooting a dark glare at Sherlock. "You're a bad influence on her," he quipped.

* * *

Sherlock grinned at Irene, John still looking uncomfortable at his misstep, before he raised the phone again, his tone and face serious again.

"It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new," he murmured, "Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone. Which means your blog has a far wider readership."

John looked away, uncomfortable, as Irene approached Sherlock on his other side.

"It still has a full battery, so it can't have been in that strong box long," she mused, eyes boring into the display as Sherlock turned it on.

_You have one new message…_

The female computer tones echoed in the office, before five beeping noises sounded, which they identified as the Greenwich Time Signal pips, and an image flashed up on screen.

"Was that it?" John asked, frowningly.

"No, that not it," Sherlock muttered, turning the phone on its side so they could see the image of a rundown room, no carpet, torn wallpaper peeling from the damp walls, an old mirror leant against the corner wall.

"What in the hell are we supposed to make of that?" Lestrade asked irritably, peering over Sherlock's shoulder. "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!"

Something was not right about this, Irene could feel it. Her intuition was telling her something was wrong, but what?

The pips, what were they? What did they signify? A long ago lesson in criminology, about crimes to do with cults and secret societies, came back to her as she understood, eyes locking with Sherlock's at the same instant he got it.

"It's a warning," they both said at once, realisation shining in their faces as they stared at each other.

"A warning?" John questioned, watching the two younger people in the room carefully.

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips." Sherlock explained, glancing down at the phone.

Irene's mind was already racing ahead, sure it was a warning, but surely the pips meant more than that? What five minutes, five hours, five days, five months, what?

Or was it something else entirely?

"They're warning us it's going to happen again," Sherlock continued, oblivious to Irene's unease, looking at the photo. It sparked something in his memory, vague and almost deleted. "I've seen this place before."

And with that he made for the door, Irene already on his heels.

"Hang on!" John followed, vaguely aware that Lestrade did too. "What's going to happen again?"

"Boom!" Sherlock turned around, throwing his hands up in theatrical display, not bothering to stop walking as people stared at them. Irene met Donovan's heated glare, but only grinned predatorily.

_Bring it on…_

"Now, now pussycat, put your claws away," Sherlock whispered, reaching for her hand and squeezing it gently before continuing their mad rush to the foyer. Irene rolled her eyes and huffed impatiently.

"You can't talk," she muttered mutinously, as they walked outside into the cold morning air and hailed a taxi.


	22. Betrayal

The Broken Tango

**Ok some reviewers have expressed concerns that Irene is…losing her voice, just regurgitating what Sherlock says, something which does confuse me since I don't think I nicked any of his dialogue for Irene, but it has led me to deviate from my original plotline, which was pretty much just the Great Game with a confrontation with Irene included as well.**

**Now…let's just say the threat posed by Moriarty to Irene begins to exercise Sherlock a little more ;)**

Chapter 22

* * *

It took John two days to ask Sherlock the question which had floated in his brain since this sadistic game started. They were sat in a café, finally eating something after almost no sleep or breaks to just _breathe_ for 48 hours.

Well, John was eating. Sherlock was glancing excitedly at the pink phone every few seconds, and Irene was in the bathroom.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked his friend, as John shovelled copious amounts of baked beans and gloopy egg into his mouth.

"To be honest, we've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started," John replied, wearily. He paused, hesitatingly, but he didn't know how long Irene would be in the bathroom. "Has it occurred to you…?"

"Probably," Sherlock returned abruptly, making John sigh impatiently.

"No, has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you?" he asked, finally getting it out. He had his suspicions, but he needed to know if Sherlock knew, and was just keeping him in the dark, or didn't.

He wouldn't bet on the last one.

"The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes…it's all meant for you," he continued, watching his friend closely. Sherlock's austere features didn't flicker as he eyed his friend.

"Yes, I know." he murmured quietly, watching again as John's eyes darted to the closed door of the bathroom. He knew what was coming, and it had been exercising his mind since he had solved the first task.

"Is it him, then? Moriarty?" John asked at last, leaning in so their conversation had greater privacy. Sherlock's jaw tightened, anticipation mixing with worry in his eyes as he, at last, acknowledged the truth.

"Perhaps," he murmured, looking down at the blasted phone, _again_.

* * *

"Are you going to tell Irene?" John asked, studying Sherlock's implacable features. They hardened, and he got his answer. "Sherlock, you can't keep her in the dark. She's smart; she'll figure it out for herself anyway. And what if he goes for her?"

"He won't. That's not in his pattern, if he is our bomber," Sherlock replied quickly, sounding sure, but truth was he was anything but.

The fact that Irene might be in danger, that Moriarty was playing games with him, had been on his mind for some time. It was distracting, playing on his mind when he needed to focus on the puzzles his new nemesis was sending his way.

And he couldn't do that while she was in danger.

He needed to make her safe, get her out of any possible danger. John could take care of himself, and Moriarty was unlikely to take any especial interest in him, especially not with Irene in his sights.

He couldn't let anything happen to her.

A strange kind of panic began to take hold, squeezing his muscles and constricting his lungs.

How, how could he get her out of danger? Asking was no use, she would never listen and it wasn't like there was anywhere he could send her…

A plan began to take shape in his mind, one he didn't like but it was the only viable one left. She would hate him for it, but if it kept her safe, he didn't care.

Just then the pink phone beeped, three pips this time and the image of a rotund, blonde woman with far too much makeup. Sherlock frowned, not recognising the woman as John leaned in.

"That could be anybody," he frowned, as John sighed.

"Well, it could be, yeah. Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed," John muttered, standing up.

"How d'you mean?" Sherlock asked, looking up at his friend and colleague. Was it possible he knew more than Sherlock?

"Lucky for you, Mrs Hudson and I watch far too much telly," John finished, walking to the counter and switching on the café's television with the remote. The news report of the death of a popular host, Connie Prince, played as Sherlock's frown lightened.

Perhaps John's boring life was more useful than he thought.

* * *

Nodding to himself, he stood, flicking out his phone. Feeling John's curious eyes on his back, he stepped outside, into the cold air.

Steeling himself, burying his pride, he pressed the call button.

"Hello?" a familiar, oily voice asked and Sherlock wanted to cringe.

"Mycroft, you know very well who it is," he drawled quietly, keeping an eye on John in the café.

"Ah, my recalcitrant baby brother. To what pleasure do I owe this…rare phone call?" Mycroft asked, as Sherlock sighed, fighting for patience.

"I have a…favour to ask of you," he murmured. He explained his fears and plans to Mycroft, not telling his brother of his emotional fears, but painting it in the light of Irene being a distraction. His dearest brother didn't need to know he had a weakness.

To his credit, Mycroft listened patiently, even murmuring in agreement. After Sherlock had finished, there was only silence at the other end of the line, and the detective shifted impatiently.

"Well, will you do it?" he asked, through gritted teeth. "Mycroft…please."

There came a sigh over the line, static rushing into his ear as he winced.

"Very well, but I can't help but wonder how Miss Adler will react to all this," Mycroft drawled in his ear.

"That doesn't matter," Sherlock cut him off quickly.

"No?"

"No." he replied tersely. "I'll see you soon."

He terminated the call, inhaling shakily, as he slipped his phone into his pocket.

Nothing mattered, as long as she was safe.

At that moment the pink phone trilled in his spare hand, and he almost jumped before raising it to his ear.

"Hello?" he asked, coolly.

"_This one is a bit…defective. Sorry. She's blind. This is a funny one…I'll give you twelve hours._"

John's eyes bored into his back through the glass, but he didn't join him outside. In the reflection of the window, he saw Irene leave the bathroom, an exhilarated light in her eyes, and felt his chest tighten.

He literally felt torn. One side knew he should tell her, the other urged him to get her out of the way so she was no longer a distraction.

At the end of the day, she needed to be protected and this was the best way. She would be safest with him, but if that couldn't be, then this was the next best option.

He wondered what heavy object she would, no doubt, throw at him when this was over.

Shaking himself, he recalled his mind to the task at hand, as his eyes scanned the cars rushing past on the road.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked the bomber, or rather the old lady whose voice he had stolen.

"_I like…to watch you…dance_," the call cut off, as he sighed. This maniac was sounding all too familiar, all too uncomfortably like someone else he knew very well.

Someone who was easily bored, who needed distraction…

Pulling himself together, he put the pink phone in his pocket, sliding out his own one and texting John quickly.

**John, phone Lestrade and get him to have the body ready for us at the morgue. I'll take care of Irene and DON'T say anything about the case. **

**S**

With that, he walked back in.

* * *

John frowned at the odd text Sherlock had sent him, but didn't argue.

"Anything new?" Irene asked, as Sherlock rejoined them. He shook his dark head, glancing meaningfully at John, who sighed but got the message.

"I'm going to go back to the flat, see if there's anything new on the Carl Powers case. I'll phone if anything comes up," he murmured, escaping before his conscience got the better of him and he told Irene what was really going on.

Sherlock ordered two coffees to go, before taking Irene's arm.

* * *

"I have something I need to talk to you about," he murmured, as they strolled down the street. Irene glanced up at the detective, frowning playfully.

"Uh oh, this doesn't sound good," she joked, but Sherlock didn't say anything more. They walked in silence until they reached a small park, deserted in the early morning, the only sound cars rushing by on the roads and the occasional call of the birds.

He led her to a bench and sat her down, taking her coffee while she did so. Joking mood gone, Irene's eyes narrowed as he began pacing up and down in front of her.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" she asked, taking a long drink of coffee. God knew, after the past 48 hours she needed it.

Her lover turned to her finally, his face looking oddly…torn.

That was when the bottom fell out of her stomach, and she knew something was up. Her eyelids felt oddly heavy, but she blinked, forcing them to stay up. Her hand already trembling, she dropped the coffee as she stood, lurching towards Sherlock who caught her. Nose buried in his scarf, she looked up as her mind began to fog but she fought it.

"How long since you put the sedative in my coffee?" she asked, quietly, feeling cold spread all over her.

"Two minutes," he murmured against her forehead. Her knees began to weaken, her lids growing heavier, but she still fought it.

"But why…?" she asked, shaking her head until her mind began to sluggishly click the puzzle pieces into place.

It all ended with one word.

"It's Moriarty, isn't it?" she asked, forcing her heavy head to look up into Sherlock's face. Her teeth gritted, she fisted her hands on his lapel, dragging herself upright by sheer will.

"I have to keep you safe, Irene," Sherlock breathed against her forehead, as she began to fail in staying awake, losing her strength. "Don't fight it, Irene. Don't fight the sedative."

"Go to hell!" she snarled, pushing him away with what little remained of her strength, but she stumbled. His strong arms came around her waist again, cradling her against his slender body as she slumped to the ground. Tears of frustration and betrayal stung against her cheek, as she looked up into his implacable grey eyes.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured, hugging her to him desperately, begging her to understand but all he saw in her eyes was betrayal and deep hurt.

It spiked into his own emotions, making him almost lose control. Her legs gave out, and he took her weight easily, holding her to him as she eventually gave in to the sedative she had drunk, her eyes fluttering closed on the tears and the fury. He stroked her hair, pressing a kiss to the silken waves. "I'm sorry."

Mycroft and his men arrived at that point, the older Holmes placing a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder as they put Irene on a hospital stretcher and bundled her into the back of a black van. Sherlock relinquished Irene grudgingly, watching her go with unseeing eyes as he remembered the pain and the hurt and the…disappointment in her eyes.

More painful than any bullet, or any knife.

"I'll look after her," Mycroft promised warmly, but Sherlock couldn't trust himself to speak, nor did he trust his brother to do as he had said but it was the only way to keep her safe.

Safe from Moriarty.

Shrugging off his brother's hand, he turned and walked away, determined to finish this so Irene was safe again.

No matter what it took.

He walked back to the main road, trying to ignore the black van now pulling away from him, and hailed a taxi.

He had a crime to solve.


	23. Distractions

The Broken Tango

Chapter 23

* * *

The black van carrying an unconscious, drugged Irene sped into the London traffic, carrying her towards a MI6 safe house in the Docklands when a message came over the sat navigation system. The driver, a new agent called James Dean, frowned but did as he was told, diverting away from the route to the safe house, and away to another, disused one in the Docklands.

He pulled up in a shabby, undeveloped factory; he and the two guards frowned.

One, a tall, burly Caucasian, looked at his partners and drew his gun.

"I'll get out and look around. You get on the phone, and find out why we're here instead of at the other location," he muttered.

As he got out the van, he glanced down and saw a tiny red dot dancing on his chest, over the ordinary black tie he wore.

A minute later, blood dotted the slimed concrete, as one corpse slumped beside the van, and the other two bent over the dashboard, tiny holes in their foreheads.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was sat in his office, texting John impatiently about the lack of progress on the West case, when his PA hurried in, dark hair bouncing, alarm written in her attractive features.

"Yes, Anthea, what is it?" he asked irascibly, gesturing for her to hurry up.

"Irene Adler is missing. The van carrying her has just been found in an old, abandoned factory in the Docklands, the agents accompanying her murdered. Gunshot wounds to the head and chest," she explained smoothly, alarm in her eyes. Mycroft's eyes narrowed, as he pursed his lips and twined his fingers beneath his chin.

This wasn't good. If Sherlock found out about this, the boy would get distracted from the missile plan case. Should he tell him?

"Sir? Do you want me to contact your brother?" Anthea asked hesitantly, as Mycroft looked up.

"No, and I want a full media blackout, not so much as a hint of this on the news or papers, understand?" he barked, gesturing for her to leave. She scurried away, already reaching for her Blackberry, as the door closed.

Mycroft sat back in his chair, thinking quickly. No doubt when his brother found out about this, he would never forgive him, but it was for the best.

It would not do for Sherlock to get distracted.


	24. A Cold Resolution

The Broken Tango

Chapter 24

* * *

Irene stirred, her head buzzing like a thousand bees were trying to smash their way through her skull. Every cell in her body ached.

Opening her eyes, bleary and unfocused, she instantly froze.

Somehow she doubted Sherlock's idea of keeping her safe was having her tied down to a bed in a cold room, surrounded by medical machines and a drip in her arm. She tried to move, but her limbs were heavy, immovable.

"Always knew you were a hard girl to tie down, Maria," a voice suddenly spoke, and Irene fought to focus, trying to move her head. But only three people in the world knew her real name, and that voice didn't belong to Sherlock, or John.

James.

She couldn't speak, but only just breathe as her mind quickly worked out what must have happened.

If she couldn't move, she must still be under the influence of the sedative, but the heaviness of her limbs would indicate a paralytic as well. Her brain foggily recalled the scene in the park with Sherlock, the damned impossible git!

And now she was at her brother's mercy.

A face suddenly appeared over her own, and she felt shock lance through her.

Jim from the hospital! Molly's Jim, the Jim she'd even flirted with once upon a time, to provoke Sherlock.

"Hello sis. You're looking…well, you look like crap actually," Jim smiled, pretending to mock-wipe her sweaty brow. She glared at him, aching to punch that smug grin off his face. "What, cat got your tongue?"

She glared at him even more, as he straightened, but still remained within her line of sight.

"Sorry about the sedatives, sis, but knowing your temperament, they were necessary. But you must be wondering why you're here? Why I haven't killed you yet?" Moriarty sneered, watching her intently with his cold eyes. "But then again, I can already see the cogs of that brain of yours working away, working out why I've got you here. Is that why he likes you, I wonder?"

Unable to reply, Irene just forced herself to block him out as more and more painful words tumbled from her half-brother's lips. She could feel some mobility returning to her face, and she concentrated hard to break through the drugs.

"Why…a-are you…doing this?" she panted out, every word taking conscious effort. Moriarty frowned and leant in, gesturing to his ears.

"Sorry, sis, didn't quite catch that," he taunted her, and she really wanted to punch that silly grin right off his malevolent face.

Even if she did still feel like crap warmed up.

"You….heard me…bastard," she snarled, glaring at him. With a frightening speed, the jovial look on her half-brother's face turned into an animalistic grimace, madness blazing in his cold, reptilian eyes as he grabbed the IV drip beside her bed, squeezing it. She gasped, the paralytic she'd been drugged with keeping her still, as more drugs were forced into her body in a painful rush, pressure building under her skin, and in her veins.

"I would've thought Holmes knew how to keep his bitch's tongue on its leash," he muttered, letting the IV drip go, as Irene sighed in relief. Her body ached, both from the paralysis and the pain of the drugs. She was so tired…

But Moriarty wasn't finished with her yet.

"I can't wait to see the look on Sherlock's dear little face. You see, he thinks his darling big brother is keeping you safe…How pissed will he be, when he finds out that not only have I now got you, big bro didn't even think to tell him! We wouldn't want him getting distracted, would we Maria?" he whispered, bending so his mouth was at her ear. "You see, you have a very special part to play before you die. Everyone thinks Sherlock is so great, so above the puny emotions of the rest of humanity, even he thinks that…but we know different, don't we Maria? And soon, he will learn that before he dies, in the most painful way I can contrive."

"H-how?" she gasped, the lethargy creeping up on her again as the extra dose of drugs began to take effect in her system. Moriarty's smile turned lupine, as he stared down at his little sister.

"I'm going to make him choose whether you live or die. Whatever happens, Maria…everyone will die but Sherlock will get to choose who dies first," he murmured, before he straightened, readjusting his tie nonchalantly. "So nice to have had this chat, Maria. But I have business to attend to, the game is nearly up!"

And with that, he disappeared from her sightline, and she was left alone in that cold, grey room, the gentle blipping of the medical monitors her only company.

* * *

Against her will, Irene drifted into a daze, her mind sunk in a stupor for what felt like hours, unable to move on the hard, hospital bed.

She didn't know when her mind became lucid again, but it did with a slow onslaught of memory and thought. Slowly she became aware of the sound of the monitors, the rustle of the sheets, her clothes pressing against her skin.

She was able to think at last.

She didn't know how, or who exactly Moriarty was going to force Sherlock to choose between, apart from herself but if she had to hazard a guess, it would be John.

He was probably the closest to Sherlock, bar her.

Or so she had thought, but it was obvious to Irene now that Sherlock had gotten her out of the way because she was a distraction, nothing more. He had said they would take down Moriarty together, but he had lied. She should have known, should have never trusted him.

She couldn't trust anyone, she had learned that lesson a long time ago.

But she could at least ensure damage limitation. She highly doubted her brother would come back to see her, so if she just played limp and lifeless, maybe they wouldn't drug her again, giving her time to regain use of her limbs and her brain.

She would have to remain absolutely still, as if truly paralysed. She had no doubt that brother dear would have a camera watching her for signs of mobility, so if this was going to work, she needed to remain motionless.

Closing her eyes, breathing deeply, Irene utilised a trick taught to rookie pilots to help control nerves and calm the body's reaction to stress before going into battle. This was no different.

* * *

Eyes closed, mind immersed in her meditation, Irene only inwardly smiled when she heard the door of her prison open, and she was forcibly dragged upright. Head lolling, she allowed her legs to fold, not allowing any tension to return to her muscles as someone swore and hefted her upright.

She was shoved into a chair, a wheelchair from the feel of it.

Panic set in when she felt the restraints placed around her wrists and ankles, binding her to the wheelchair.

Clearly brother dear was not taking any chances.

As she was wheeled away, still playing dead, she felt her heart sink as she thought of John and Sherlock.

A cold kind of resolution settled into her heart, as she inwardly nodded firmly. Despite all she had felt for him, needed him, cared for him, even loved him Sherlock clearly cared nothing for her.

Or at least not enough to allow her to remain by his side.

But he was the only one who could defeat her brother, so she would ensure he remained alive, at any cost.

For her mother, for her stepfather, for every life James Moriarty had ever claimed, Irene Adler would ensure Sherlock would be around to make him pay.

The game was nowhere near over.


	25. Thinking Of You

The Broken Tango

Chapter 25

* * *

Sherlock had never given any credence to the fluffy ideals of romance. The idea that a person's absence could make the heart grow fonder was both inane and saccharine.

Until Irene.

All through the next case, standing in the morgue, looking down on Connie Prince's corpse, he lost himself imagining her there beside him, before snapping himself back to reality.

Back to work.

* * *

Her hurt, pained, disappointed eyes haunted him every time he closed his own, if only for a split second. He forced the image away, forced the phantom recollection of her soft body collapsing into his arms away.

Back to work.

* * *

When the bomber had phoned again, taunting him, prodding his temper and that tiny shard of a heart he pretended he didn't have, he'd felt a rise of fear that Moriarty had found Irene.

Would Mycroft tell him if something went wrong?

He didn't know.

Feeling John's rebuking eyes on his back, disgusted by what he had done to Irene, no matter the justification.

If it meant she was safe, he could live with that.

In this case, the end did justify the means.

* * *

Raoul de Santos was their killer.

Walking into Lestrade's office, announcing it triumphantly, didn't feel as good as it usually did.

There was a distinct lack at his side. He always had two people by his side now, and to feel only one, and a highly disapproving one at that, felt…

Wrong.

He forced his thoughts away, those errant emotions that would break down his resolution and stop him from beating Moriarty.

Stop him from ensuring Irene's safety.

* * *

He had failed.

The old woman had died, and Moriarty had won this round. The thought frustrated him to no end.

John and he sat watching the morning news, the lack of Irene sitting beside him like a gaping hole in his consciousness. He struggled to shut it out.

He couldn't succumb to his emotions, he just couldn't.

In this game of life and death, he couldn't afford to be human.

"_You're wrong, you know,"_

Sometimes Sherlock could have sworn Irene was whispering away, inside his head, his last words to John echoing in the air still, in the disappointed and angry face of his closest friend.

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them," he had said coldly, fingertips pressed against one another, as he coolly watched his flatmate, the brave, patriotic soldier who so desperately believed there were heroes in this cold world.

Believed he, Sherlock, was one of them.

But he wasn't.

"_You're wrong, you know,"_

The soft whisper in his head was accompanied by the phantom pressure of a kiss among his curls, as he felt a shiver ripple down his spine.

He closed his eyes, blocked out the phantom sensations, and got back to doing what he did best.

The pink phone _beeped_, and he sighed.

At last!

"Excellent," he muttered. "A view of the Thames. South Bank, somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo."

He rifled through his jacket for his phone, all the time conscious of John's eyes boring into him.

"You check the papers, I'll look online," Sherlock continued, glancing up just once to see John, unmoving, unswervingly watching him. "Oh, you're angry with me so you won't help. Not much cop this caring lark."

"Not much cop this…denial lark," John retorted. Sherlock's head snapped up, eyes pinning John where he stood.

"What are you babbling on about?" he demanded, eyes narrowed and burning, an odd pressure in his chest.

"You say you don't care, and that you're not a hero. The second may be true, but the first isn't. You _do_ care, Sherlock, just a little otherwise you wouldn't have done everything in your power to get Irene out of danger," John explained quietly, before walking past a stunned Sherlock to flick through the papers. Sherlock regained his equilibrium, and nothing more was said.

He stood on a cold, wet riverside tip above yet another body, and the lack…that all-consuming lack beside him was back again, like a pervasive ache through his body.

But he was Sherlock Holmes, and he had work to do.

All he cared about was the work.

The sentence became a mantra to wipe away the feelings of guilt and apprehension he felt whenever he stopped thinking about the case, about the game.

And that, he couldn't afford.

So he pushed her out of his mind, out of his pathetic heart, so he could focus. The pain built, but he allowed it to consume him, giving him clarity again where there had only been fog.

The game was not yet over.

* * *

The first test came when he was in the gallery, walking away from Miss Wenceslas, disrobing as he went. The thought of Irene, waiting for him in the locker room where he'd left his other clothes, smiling seductively as she leant back on one of the benches, tugging him to her by the nondescript black tie had almost been too much, as the ache started up again.

What she would say…

"_You look good in a uniform…maybe we should keep it, for future uses," she would whisper coyly, lips brushing his teasingly._

He shook his curly head, wiping the fantasy from existence. He couldn't think of her now, he refused to.

And Sherlock Holmes never did anything he didn't want to.

* * *

Looking up at the stars in the Vauxhall Arches had its inevitable effect.

Fighting the Golem in the planetarium had its inevitable effect.

Standing in front of the fake Vermeer had its inevitable effect.

Irene had studied astrophysics; she might even have spotted the mistake before he did. Possibly.

The thought made his lips quirk as he imagined her reaction to his thoughts.

"_Sherlock, I studied astrophysics, not astronomy. I studied the theory behind why the big stars went bang, not when and where!"_

It was amazing really, how easily he could conjure her voice, her eyes, her face.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice cut through his daydream, as the police car pulled up outside Scotland Yard. With a sigh, he forced the daydream away, to the depths of his mind where it belonged, and got out.

Looking at Irene's pseudo-uncle gave him one last pang, before he locked it away, with the rest of his emotions.

* * *

He knew it, had known it all along, still it was nice to have his knowledge confirmed, even if his triumph had to remain private since John had disappeared to deal with the Bruce-Partington case, and Lestrade didn't know about Moriarty.

It also destroyed the last remnant of doubt in his mind that he had done wrong in drugging Irene, and ensuring she was safe from her brother.

"I was put in touch with people…_his_ people," Miss Wenceslas murmured brokenly, as Sherlock straightened in his seat.

He was right, all along.

"Well, there is never any real contact. Just messages…whispers…" she trailed off again, fear seeping into her voice. Sherlock, triumph and need breaking into his own tone, predatorily leant forward, eyes boring into Miss Wenceslas as if he could pierce into her very soul.

"And did those whispers have a name?" he asked, in a deadly whisper, with no refusal to answer brooked. She would tell him, or heaven help her…

Miss Wenceslas glanced first at him, then at Lestrade before returning her gaze to the floor. "Moriarty."

Sherlock relaxed into his chair, a strange emotion running through him. He looked out the window, eyes unfocussed and distant as Lestrade had Miss Wenceslas taken away, and he pondered this development which confirmed all his suspicions.

This was all just a game, a great game in which all these cases, these puzzles were chess pieces, and he the ultimate target.

Not even Irene. _Him_.

The Bruce-Partington missile plans were the last puzzle, he was sure of it. The final jigsaw piece to be moved. The final pip.

Irene was safe, now he needed to protect John, and the best way to do that was to go on as he had, pretend there was another case out there while solving this one as a distraction.

No need to tell John the truth, it would only endanger him.

"_What you don't know, won't hurt you,"_

He sighed, as Irene's voice and words from what felt like centuries ago echoed in his head. He wondered idly if he was developing schizophrenia.

Just typical that it would be Irene's voice he was hearing in his head.

He knew it was only a projection of his guilt, summoning up memories of their past to torment his conscious mind but hearing all his suspicions confirmed helped ease the guilt.

Not the ache in his chest, but the guilt was easing.

He had done the right thing.

* * *

He was sitting in their living room, watching a re-run of Jeremy Kyle, the pair of them bundled up to protect them from the glassless windows letting in the cold.

It was moments like these, in the peace and the relative quiet before the storm, that he felt _her_ absence keenly.

_It's not like she's died, idiot!_ the logical part of his brain rolled its eyes derisively, sneering at the more emotional side that was missing her, dare he admit it at last. _Oh you are pathetic…you can't even say her name anymore, or think it in case your bleeding heart breaks a little more? Irene, Irene, Irene wherefore art thou Irene! Please! You did her a favour, you prat, and she's safe, isn't she? She was too much of a distraction, you did what you had to…_

"Shut up," he growled under his breath, making John, who was seated at the desk typing on his laptop, turn around in his seat.

"What?"

"Nothing," Sherlock grunted, focusing again on the inane television show he was watching. Really, did no one have any common sense anymore? "No, no, no! Course he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn ups on his jeans!"

"I knew it was dangerous," John commented absentmindedly.

"Hm?" his irritable flatmate grunted.

"Getting you into crap telly," he elaborated, at which Sherlock just grunted again.

"Not a patch on Connie Prince," he muttered, huddling deeper into the warmth of the chair again. If he pressed in a certain place, he could just feel the warmth of Irene's skin on the leather, sense the imprint of her limbs there…

_No, no, no, no! Don't even go there!_

"Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?" John asked, and Sherlock was grateful for the distraction from his treacherous thoughts.

"Yep. He was over the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood. Again," he replied easily. The lie was only a small one. What he hadn't told his brother or John was that he had broken the security encryptions, copied the plans onto another, identical memory stick and given the original back to Mycroft.

"You know, I'm still waiting," John began, a slight teasing tone slipping into his voice. Sherlock was grateful for it, this easy banter that had always existed between them, stopping him from slipping into that emotional whirlpool that awaited him every time he allowed himself to think of…_her._

"Hm?" he muttered questioningly.

"For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."

"Didn't do you any good did it?" he retorted back at John, who grinned and leant back in his chair.

"No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective," John threw the gambit right back at him, teasing a smile from Sherlock's stern mouth.

"True," he sighed, glad for the distraction once more. John's face sobered as he watched his friend, guessing what was on his mind. He had looked a similar way the day Irene had disappeared, drowning in a sea of his own emotions.

"You did the right thing, Sherlock. For Irene, I mean," he elaborated at his friend's questioning look. An odd expression passed over Sherlock's face, before the austere planes eased back into their impassive mask, as he refocused on the TV screen.

But John thought he heard the tiniest mumble of a "Thank you." before he turned away.

"I won't be in for tea. I'm going to Sarah's. There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge," he said while standing from his chair and heading for the door. "Milk, we need milk."

"I'll get some," Sherlock's deep voice suddenly said from behind him, as he turned around in surprise.

"Really?"

"Really."

"And some beans then?" he added hesitantly, unsure how much he could push Sherlock. He really must be lovesick.

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the TV show, just nodding and grunting in acknowledgement. Muttering about wonders never ceasing, John turned and left the flat.

* * *

Out in the cold air, he pulled his jacket closer and started the long walk to Sarah's, enjoying the exercise. He thought over the events of the last few days, and found himself shaking his head in amazement.

And he'd once said nothing ever happened to him.

John also knew he wouldn't have had it any other way.

Looking up at the stars, he sighed as he thought of Irene. He hoped she was alright, hoped she was safe and that she could soon come home. He also hoped she wouldn't hold it against Sherlock too much.

He had only been trying to protect her, in his own warped way. Sherlock had been so alone, emotionally, for so long that he just did not know how to handle these new feelings he had, and tried to hide, without success. At the end of the day, whether Sherlock acknowledged it or not, he was in love with Irene, and she was in love with him.

It was as clear as day.

As he walked into a side alley, a short cut leading to Sarah's flat, he heard a set of footsteps behind him. He slowed, instincts telling him this wasn't good.

The footsteps had stopped.

He walked forward, the footsteps followed.

Trying to control his breathing, John slid easily into the shadows, using his field craft training to blend into the brickwork, melting into the darkness.

How he wished he'd brought his gun with him, but the Browning was back at the flat.

_Probably shouldn't have left it anywhere Sherlock could find it, but oh well…_

_Hindsight is a marvellous thing, but not now, John! _a voice scarily like Sherlock's yelled at him in his head as he heard the footsteps come nearer. He easily controlled his breathing.

Waiting.

The footsteps came nearer, stopped.

John lashed out, dropping his shadow with a well-placed punch to the neck, and then followed up with up cut to the base of the jaw. He panted, looking down at the body on the ground when pain blasted away his vision, something hard impacting across the base of his skull.

John Watson crumpled to the ground.

* * *

Back at the flat, Sherlock waited until he heard the door close before reaching for his laptop. He quickly brought up his website, and began typing.

This was the only way, with John safe at Sarah's, and Irene in Mycroft's custody, he had to make the final move in this game of theirs.

Time for the final curtain to fall, and the players to take their places for the bow.

_**Found. The Bruce-Partington Plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.**_

Sherlock's hand hesitated for a split second over the 'enter' key. Something, some instinct whispered that something was wrong.

Something he couldn't define.

His logical brain shrugged it aside. John was safe on his way to Sarah's, and Irene was safe in a MI6 safe house in the Docklands.

Mycroft would have phoned him if anything had happened.

Confident once more, Sherlock hit the key, snapped the laptop shut and settled to wait for midnight to come.


	26. The Impasse

The Broken Tango

Chapter 26

* * *

The cloying air of the swimming pool made Sherlock's shirt stick to his pallid skin, irritatingly, as he carefully stepped inside.

The humidity made his skin glisten in the dim lighting, the gentle lap of the water at the dirty tiles of the swimming pool deceptively peaceful.

He had John's gun in his pocket, the second memory stick waiting in his suit jacket.

The game was finally nearing its end.

* * *

The moment he stepped inside, he felt eyes on him, watching his every move as he removed the memory stick and twirled it in his hands, clasped behind his back.

Sherlock glanced up at the gallery above the swimming pool, wondering if Moriarty was watching him from up there.

It was likely.

"Bought you a little getting-to-know-you present," he suddenly announced, holding the little black stick aloft almost tauntingly. "That's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance, all to distract me from this!"

A door suddenly opened, somewhere in the chaotic maze of changing cubicles, as Sherlock turned towards them.

And the last person Sherlock expected stepped forward, eyes cold, face blank, hands casually tucked into a baggy parka.

Sherlock was stunned, speechless. It couldn't be, it just couldn't.

Not John…

"Evening," John muttered, coolly, his voice giving nothing away. Sherlock's heart sank as his head screamed at him, wondering how he had managed to get away with the deception for so long, living under their roof for months…

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" John continued speaking, cold and horribly blank, his face unreadable for the first time since he had known him.

"John! What the hell…?" he trailed off when John started speaking again, but this time his voice was different. Detached…stilted…awkward.

"Bet you never saw this coming," John remarked, and something in Sherlock's brain clicked. John hadn't gone out wearing a parka, and even more telling was the fact that his words, his speech were almost hesitant, like he was repeating another's words as they came to him.

Words not his own.

Realisation dawning, Sherlock slowly drew nearer, eyes fixed on his best friend.

John slowly withdrew his gloved hands from his pockets, pulling apart the two halves of the parka to reveal the Semtex and detonators attached to his chest.

Anger filled Sherlock, cold, purposeful, lending him clarity of mind at last.

He had tried to keep him safe, Damnit!

He had underestimated Moriarty, and what the man would do to get to him. He could only hope Irene was safe, and that he could trust his brother.

He wouldn't be so foolish to underestimate Moriarty again.

"What…would you like me…to make him say…next? Gottle'o'geer. Gottle'o'geer, gottle'o'geer," John continued speaking Moriarty's script, like a puppet on strings, eyes now urgently boring into Sherlock's.

"Stop it!" he snarled, still turning as he walked closer, trying to see anyone else in the dimly lit swimming pool.

"Nice touch, this. The pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him, I can stop John Watson too…stop his heart," John continued quietly, his voice so even and level, it made Sherlock even angrier, even colder.

"Who are you?" he called, turning his back to John, away from the red laser sight dancing erratically on the man's chest.

* * *

A door opened, and footsteps came nearer as a piercing, jocular Irish accent echoed around the room.

"I gave you my number. Thought you might call," it taunted, whining and nasal. Sherlock spun in the direction of the voice, as a man stepped into the light.

He was tall, though shorter than Sherlock, dressed in an exquisitely cut suit. His dark hair and pale skin resembled his own, but even Sherlock had to concede that the reptilian, predatory insanity burning his dark eyes was something far more insidious than Sherlock's personal brand of madness.

If Sherlock believed in good and evil, he would have thought this man the personification of pure evil.

The menace was there, in every movement, every nonchalantly graceful, lethargic step towards him, eyes boring into his with a smug smirk.

He recognised that smirk anywhere, he had been seeing it for weeks on the face of the woman he cared more for than any other. Irene's half-brother only confirmed his suspicions at last.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" Moriarty joked, as Sherlock whipped the gun gracefully from his pocket and brought it around to centre on the criminal.

"Both," Sherlock quipped, eyes never faltering from Moriarty as he stalked nearer.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" the criminal mastermind called cheerily, the name tugging on Sherlock's memory. Irene had called him James, and Jim… "Jim? Jim from the hospital? Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? Although I suppose that was rather the point."

Sherlock quickly decided this man was insufferable as well as a psychopath, before a quick glance at John centred his mind back on their predicament. John was strapped into an explosive vest with a laser sight covering him, and Sherlock was holding the only other gun. The odds were not good.

As he knew what Sherlock was thinking, Moriarty grinned and mocked, "Don't be silly, someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

Moriarty stopped his slow stalk directly opposite Sherlock, slouching arrogantly, uncaringly as he eyed his opponent. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist you see, like you!"

"Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America? Dear Jim will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?" Sherlock's voice turned sarcastic, pure venom hanging from every word.

Moriarty smirked. "Just so."

"Consulting criminal," Sherlock breathed, deciding that keeping the man talking was their best chance while he sorted out an escape plan in his head. "Brilliant."

"It is, isn't it? No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will," Moriarty's grin faded into a cold, serious expression that sat ill on his handsome features.

"I did," Sherlock cocked the gun, his hand steady, finger poised on the trigger.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way," Moriarty sang teasingly.

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment,"

"Yes you did," Sherlock retorted, earning him an irritated glance from John.

"Yeah ok, I did," Moriarty shrugged, walking closer again. "But the flirting's over, Daddy's had enough now!" he trilled in an annoying singsong voice. "I've shown you what I can do, I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid, just to get you to come out and play, so take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off!"

Sherlock hated to see what unfriendly was, if this was a friendly warning.

"Although, I have loved this, this little game of ours…playing Jim from IT. Playing gay, did you like the little touch with the underwear?" Moriarty walked past John like he was nothing, smiling bestially at Sherlock, like they were two kids that had been caught stealing apples, and were now happily reliving their crime.

"People have died," Sherlock murmured quietly, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Moriarty.

The man's mask slipped, revealing the cold, insane monster beneath. "That's what people DO!"

"I will stop you," Sherlock breathed, every syllable a deadly promise. He was all too aware that his own words, albeit in a different way, had just been shouted back at him but in his case they had been a smokescreen, a lie.

He did care about people's lives. Or in this case, the lives of two people in particular.

"No, you won't," Moriarty shook his head, almost childishly, as Sherlock glanced towards John.

"Are you all right?" he asked calmly, ignoring the consulting criminal. Moriarty stepped forward, smirking in John's ear.

"You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead."

John gave an imperceptible nod of the head, face blank and emotionless. The face of a soldier.

Abruptly, Sherlock held out the memory stick. "Take it."

"Mm? Oh…That. The missile plans," Moriarty theatrically murmured, taking it in his hand and kissing it reverently before looking up at Sherlock with a wicked grin. "Boring. I could have got them anywhere."

While Moriarty was throwing the memory stick into the pool, he had made the mistake of turning his back on John, who rushed forward and grabbed Moriarty in a chokehold.

"Sherlock, run!" he yelled, but Sherlock stayed where he was. He was not leaving John behind, and who knew how many snipers Moriarty had covering this place?

Moriarty laughed cruelly, delightedly. "Good! Very good!"

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr Moriarty then we both go up," John snarled in his ear, yanking hard on the consulting criminal's arm to illustrate his point.

"Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around, but then people do get so sentimental about their pets. So touchingly loyal!" Moriarty muttered cruelly, never taking his eyes from Sherlock's, except to wince as John yanked his arm again. "But OOPS! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr Watson."

John froze when he saw the laser dot on Sherlock's forehead, nestling incongruously among the black curls. Giving a small shake of his head, Sherlock watched as John released Moriarty, stepping back with his hands raised.

* * *

"Gotcha!" Moriarty sang again, smoothing the lapels of his suit down. "Westwood. Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"

"Oh let me guess, I get killed," Sherlock muttered in a bored voice, mind frantically trying to think a way out of this through the morass of anger and fear that had started to clog his sense, compounded by the almost sacrifice of John.

"Kill you?" Moriarty winced. "No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, some day. Don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, if you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the _heart_ out of you!"

Sherlock desperately gripped his emotions in a death hold, forcing himself to be calm and cold, at the words and the victims Moriarty's words implied.

Irene. John.

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one," he murmured quietly, but Moriarty only leant forward, conspiratorially, and replied patronisingly.

"But we both know that's not quite true."

The two enemies' eyes locked daring the other to react as Sherlock fought back his anger, and the urge to strike out at that man who threatened his friend and his lover.

The man who had murdered hundreds of people, including Irene's parents.

"Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat," Moriarty shrugged, looking almost regretful as he began to turn away. Sherlock levelled the gun at his head again.

"What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?" he asked.

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," Moriarty replied, pulling a mockingly over the top expression of surprise, before settling into his lunatic grin. "Because I would be surprised, really I would. And a teensy bit…disappointed."

Sherlock's hand didn't waver.

"And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long," Moriarty added, as if in afterthought, grinning triumphantly. Sherlock's resolve wavered as he glanced at John, and the laser dot dancing on his chest. Obviously the sniper had orders to carry through with shooting John if anything happened to Moriarty.

He couldn't risk it. He knew this game was far from over.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty turned away, tauntingly, walking through a door without looking over his shoulder. Sherlock followed him, covering him with the gun.

"Catch you later," he called, deliberately. He would make sure of it.

"No you won't!" was the annoying, singsong reply just as the doors slammed shut behind James Moriarty.

* * *

Sherlock glanced at John to see the red dot had disappeared, as he dropped the gun and lunged for his friend, unzipping the vest quickly. "All right? Are you all right?" he asked urgently, as John exhaled shakily. He tore the parka off, ignoring John's protests, throwing it away with revulsion.

Glancing at his friend, the man gasping and shaking slightly, he snatched up the gun again and ran through the doors, tracking Moriarty as John collapsed against a cubicle.

"Christ!" he swore.

Sherlock came back in through the doors, scratching his head absentmindedly with the gun. The sight soothed John's fear, as he wondered idly if one day Sherlock would blow his own brains out by pure accident.

Now the danger had passed, Sherlock's emotions swamped him, and he felt unsure and awkward as he never usually felt.

"Are you OK?" John asked, ever the doctor as Sherlock paced in front of him.

"Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine. Fine," he babbled. Sucking in a breath, he awkwardly continued. "That, er…thing that you…that you did, that, um…you offered to do…that was, um…good."

John wanted to laugh hysterically at the detective's complete inability to deal with emotions. "I'm glad no one saw that."

"Hmm?" Sherlock stopped pacing, questioningly peering down at his colleague.

"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool? People might talk," John joked, coaxing a grin from the detective, as he smiled back.

The banter distracted Sherlock from his emotional wilderness, as he grinned at the doctor.

"People do little else," he smirked, glad to see John doing the same. John snorted, and went to stand up when a tiny, red dot began to dance on his chest again. Looking up, he saw the same on Sherlock.

"Oh…!"

"Sorry boy! I'm SO changeable!" the annoying, singsong Irish accent was back again, as more red dots joined their mates on John and Sherlock's chests. "It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness."

Sherlock didn't waste time listening to Moriarty babble on. The time for action had come, and he needed a plan now.

The likelihood of either he or John getting out of this now, alive, was unlikely. The vest was ten feet behind him, exactly halfway between Moriarty and him. If John tackled him into the swimming pool just as he pulled the trigger, then they would escape the worst of the explosion, and the snipers' bullets.

He also had little doubt that Mycroft and his people were far away. The man had been following him for months now.

Moriarty was still talking. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Sherlock and John shared one last, speaking look as the doctor realised and understood what Sherlock was about to do.

It was the only way, their only chance to get out alive and possibly take Moriarty out.

With that one final look, Sherlock turned smoothly, bringing the gun to bear on Moriarty.

"Perhaps my answer has crossed yours." he muttered, Moriarty's smirk growing as the gun centred on him but then Sherlock moved it down, and surprise filled his reptilian eyes.

He was aiming for the vest instead.

The two mens' eyes bored into one another, daring the other to make a move. John waited, breath bated, for Sherlock's finger to curl, so he could move.

* * *

The silence spun out, tenser and tenser until it, at last, snapped.

With a handclap.

Moriarty was applauding Sherlock. "Oh very well done, Sherlock. Really well done! Had me there! It seems we've reached an impasse, but I have another card to play."

Sherlock's breath quickened, his body realising what was coming even as his mind scrambled to catch up.

Moriarty's grin turned cruel, predatorily so. "You honestly didn't think I couldn't get to my own sister, did you?"

The door opened, and Irene was pushed through, cuffed hand and foot to a wheelchair. Moriarty caught her, whirling her to face Sherlock and John, who stared in horror.

"And the great Sherlock Holmes discovers he has a heart after all. Aww how sweet!" the criminal laughed maniacally, stroking Irene's hair. She jerked away, her eyes rising to the two men opposite her.

Her breath caught in her throat.

John was crouched against a cubicle, eyes wide with concern for her but it was Sherlock who drew her gaze the most.

His eyes were burning with pain, and an intangible emotion that almost sent a shiver of dread down her spine.

"You have a choice now, Sherlock. Fire that gun and kill us all, or choose which one of your little pets dies first, and which one gets to live a little longer," Moriarty called tauntingly, as he stroked Irene's hair again. She glared at him, biting his hand as he growled in pain. He backhanded her across the jaw, glancing up triumphantly at Sherlock's involuntary gasp of anger.

"Would have thought you trained the bitch better, Sherlock," he sneered, grinning sadistically now. "Did you really think you could keep her away from me? Safe? That your darling brother would tell you if I took her? How gullible, when all she is, is a distraction."

Sherlock's hand wavered, as his eyes darted between Irene and John, unable to see which way out. Irene was refusing to look at him, eyes cold and dead.

"Save John, Sherlock. Don't you dare go for me!" she yelled, her voice icy, yet filled with anger as her eyes met his, blazing with rage. Sherlock felt his breath punched from his chest again, as her pain and hurt and anger hit him like a battering ram.

"Come, come now Sherlock! I'm waiting, decision time or…" Moriarty trailed off, grinning evilly. "I'll make it for you!"

And with that, he pushed the wheelchair into the swimming pool, the heavy metal frame sinking in seconds, taking Irene with it.

"Hurry up, Sherlock. You've only got time to go for one, so which will it be? The girl, or the sidekick?" Moriarty called, again in his singsong voice. Sherlock glanced at John, who nodded.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, hoping Irene would hold out for a few seconds longer. He buried his emotions, fought them away, and his voice was cold and emotionless when he spoke next.

"I choose both!" he said, icily, finger squeezing the trigger just as John's torso impacted with his own. Gunfire ricocheted all around him, as an almighty roar filled his ears, and heat exploded in front of him, but then he hit water, and the roaring was muted, and the world blurry and distorted.

* * *

Red filtered past, the world above nothing more than a fireball, as he twisted in the water to see John, his arm bleeding, face a rictus of pain, but swimming determinedly for Irene. Kicking his strong legs, he did the same, his oxygen supply dwindling.

Irene was lolling in the chair, face pale and hair waving around her body, almost ghostly. Sherlock forced himself down to her, prying her head up. Her eyes opened weakly into his, as he tried to move the damn wheelchair but it was heavy as stone. John's arms was leaking red, and he was getting weaker but he forced himself to find the strength but Irene was slowly slipping away. Desperate, Sherlock pried her mouth open, and covered it with his. He exhaled into her mouth, forcing oxygen into her lungs as her eyes widened at the impromptu kiss, his hands caging her face. Supplied with oxygen of her own, Irene tried to help as the two men struggled to get the wheelchair to the surface but she was soon fading again, her eyes closing wearily.

Mind inwardly growling, Sherlock's strength gave one final burst as they ascended into complete devastation.

The pool was half destroyed, the cubicles and walls swept away by the explosion, a few burnt cadavers now sprawled over the floor. A chunk of roof had been blown away, revealing the cold, starry sky.

Moriarty was gone.

Sherlock forced his aching arms to support the wheelchair, as John undid the restraints as quickly as he could while treading water with one hand, his body bleeding heavily.

The pain was numbing his body, as they let the wheelchair sink once more to the pool floor, hauling themselves out wearily.

John slumped onto his side, his blood staining the blackened tiles. He had been shot in the arm.

Sherlock clawed back Irene's sodden hair, her face pale and her lips blue. He forced them open, breathing oxygen into her body once more, before doing the chest compressions.

"Come on, stay with me. Stay with me, Irene," he muttered softly while he worked, fingers desperate and frantic.

John put his good hand on her pulse, feeling it return weakly, as her eyes fluttered open with Sherlock's mouth on hers.

She did not look happy.

Sherlock raised his head with a sigh of relief when he saw Irene's vibrant eyes blazing at him, smiling joyfully until a fist collided with his lip.

He fell back, anger replacing the joy now as he glared at Irene, head in John's lap, quite clearly annoyed herself despite how weak she was.

"That was for drugging me, you sonofabitch!" she croaked hoarsely, but Sherlock felt the anger and the desperation of a few minutes ago melt away into urgent desire, that she was alive and here with him, safe for now. Uncaring whether he got punched again, he grabbed her, hauled her into his arms and kissed her full on the mouth, which she hungrily, if furiously returned.

John watched them, slack-jawed, for a few seconds until the pain in his arm became too much, and his head became dizzy from blood loss.

"Sherlock…" he murmured weakly, before he felt another presence in the ruined pool.

"My, my you have been busy," Mycroft Holmes smiled amusedly, before John blacked out. Sherlock lifted his lips from Irene's, to glower at his brother, dimly registering the medics rushing towards them through the wreckage, police and Special Agents scurrying all over the place.

His brother could wait, he decided. "You took your time," he growled instead, refusing to let go of Irene even when she struggled in his arms.

There was no way he was ever letting her go again, no matter how much she fought him. He had been a fool, but never let it be said he didn't learn from his mistakes.

And looking into Irene's fury-darkened eyes, he knew he had better learn from this mistake quickly, or else.

* * *

The medics checked Irene and Sherlock over, pronouncing them healthy despite their fatigue and minor injuries. John was another matter.

Sherlock felt a cold fury erupt through him as his friend was loaded into the ambulance and driven away, Irene and he following behind in a secret service car with Mycroft.

Looking out the window, Irene's unwilling fingers clasped in his, he surveyed the night darkly.

He would not stop until Moriarty was gone, unable to prey on anyone ever again. For John, for Irene, for _him_.

Moriarty was alive, and out there. He would not stop, until he had done what he had set out to do. And neither would Sherlock.

The game was most definitely not over. This was just the first round.


	27. Aftermath

The Broken Tango

Chapter 27

* * *

Sherlock stood at the observation window of the private room where John Watson lay, peacefully resting in a drugged sleep, his injured arm carefully suspended in a sling.

Mycroft had had them taken to a private hospital, to try and keep them 'dead' for as long as possible. The three dead snipers, burnt beyond recognition, would serve as cannon fodder for the press and for Moriarty.

They had been gone long before Lestrade had got there, and the Inspector was devastated at the thought his niece was possibly dead.

Mycroft was still undecided as to whether he should be informed of the truth.

The three of them were going to go into hiding, and wait for Moriarty to resurface.

Then they would strike.

Sherlock didn't think of that, didn't think of anything other than the fact that it was _his_ friend lying in a hospital bed, weak from blood loss and with a bullet hole in his arm.

His fault that Irene was now avoiding him, refusing to so much as look him in the face.

He had only tried to protect her, for God's sake! He'd done it for her!

Or so his mind protested loudly, but the rest of him told it to shut up.

He felt a presence at his shoulder, and didn't need to turn around to know it was his brother.

"I should have known better than to trust you, Mycroft. I should have known all along that you wouldn't have told me that Moriarty took Irene," he murmured softly.

"She would have been a distraction, Sherlock. As is he," the older Holmes gestured to John, lying asleep in his bed. "This Moriarty is dangerous, Sherlock. You should be planning your next move as we speak, not pining over John Watson's bedside. Your…friends are distractions, liabilities. You can't afford liabilities."

Sherlock felt his temper swell, and this time he did nothing to quell it. With the speed of a tiger, he spun and punched his brother right in his big, fat face. With a yelp, Mycroft bent double, as Sherlock stepped back, panting, shaking from anger.

"Only to you, brother dear. Only to you," he replied simply, before turning back to his silent, lonely vigil over John's bedside, uncaring of his snivelling brother or his sulky withdrawal.

* * *

He had no idea how long he had stood in that cold, brightly lit hallway when the smell of freshly washed hair and that faint scent of lavender wafted towards him, accompanied by slow, purposeful footsteps.

He knew who it was.

They hadn't spoken since they had got to the hospital, when she had torn her hand from his, and walked away with the nurses without a glance.

The footsteps stopped, but he still didn't face her. If he was truthful, it was because he was a coward. Or maybe he was just trying to spare her the steadily fraying control he possessed.

Whatever the reason, he couldn't look at her.

"Why?" she asked, quietly, coldly.

"You were in danger, every second you were with me. I knew Moriarty was behind the bombings by the second puzzle, and I knew he would come after you. I had to protect you," he murmured, tonelessly, without emotion.

"Why? You made it clear I was only a distraction, you lied to me when you found it convenient," she continued, pushing his control. He forced himself to stay absolutely still, and not look at her.

It was too painful, and he couldn't manage anymore emotion. He just couldn't deal with it.

He felt her gaze leave him, travelling to John, still unconscious in the hospital bed, and her quietly strong voice echoed through him.

"Don't you dare regret letting him in, Sherlock. He would say it was worth the wounds," she murmured fiercely, her soft voice belying the aggression in her tone.

"But it isn't. Especially not now, with Moriarty still out there. I will not let you place yourselves in danger for me again," he growled, eyes now glaring at John's sleeping figure. Every word Irene was saying was like a poisonous dagger, cutting away at what remained of his control, tenuous and uncertain.

And the thought of losing control scared him.

"I told you not to go for me. I told you, and it's your fault this has happened. It's your fault John is lying in that hospital bed, because as usual, you locked us out. You _lied_, Sherlock," she thrust the dagger in even further, entirely unaware of the perilous territory she was now treading. Sherlock's fists clenched on the window sill, his gaze boring holes in the glass.

"To protect you," he protested huskily. "Both of you could have died, because I didn't protect you."

"And both of us could have died because you _lied_, Sherlock. We're in too far now, Sherlock. You're like a drug, addictive and ultimately destructive, but it's too late. This, all of this, was _our_ choice, _our_ doing. Not yours, so don't you dare start wallowing in self-pity!" she snapped, at the precise same time Sherlock did.

He turned to her, grabbed her arms in his hands and forced her back against the opposite wall, their noses inches apart, glowering at one another.

"Why, Irene? Why do you do this?" he growled, eyes burning with pain and uncontrolled emotion.

Irene narrowed her eyes coldly, pushing him away. He reined himself in, just enough, to let her go when his body and his heart was clamouring for her, needed her like oxygen.

"Because of something _you_ will never understand, Sherlock," she replied softly, before walking away down the corridor.

She didn't hear Sherlock's quiet whisper, ringing in the empty corridor.

"No more."

* * *

Later that night, moonlight streamed in the bare window of the hospital room where Irene slept dreamlessly, still clothed atop the bed, in her ruined shirt and skirt. She was turned on her side, away from the door, unaware as it opened and then closed soundlessly.

A dark shadow approached her bed, hesitating for a moment before it bent over her, two pale wrists appearing to imprison her slender body between them. Lips brushed her hair, her ear, her cheek.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock breathed, lips very gently caressing her skin. Irene awoke at that whisper, tensing when she realised who was pinning her to the bed. Sherlock breathed his regret between yearning kisses on her hair and cheek, until with a shiver, she turned to him.

Her heart was still bruised, and she couldn't forgive him, but the need she felt in her own body was too great to ignore.

She turned her head, brushing his lips. They caressed, then fused, deep moans drawn involuntarily from both throats as tongues explored and then possessed, the kiss spiralling into frantic need, as Irene stretched upwards into his arms, hands searching through his hair.

Abruptly Sherlock broke the kiss off with a groan, leaving both panting and wide-eyed. Irene was stunned.

None of their kisses had been so bare, so raw, so full of unrestrained emotion. She met Sherlock's dark eyes in the pitch black of night, and shivered under the barely controlled need in them.

"I'm sorry," he breathed again, against her lips before her arms were suddenly bereft again, and he was gone.

Irene stared at the place where he had been for what felt like hours, until the first rays of dawn began to paint the bland cream walls pink and orange.


	28. John Lends A Helping Hand

The Broken Tango

Chapter 28

* * *

Irene jumped as one of the nurses popped her head around the door of her room, with a cheery smile.

"Miss Adler, your friend's just woken up. I thought you might like to see him," the friendly nurse, Annie if Irene remembered correctly, told her. Irene rose silently, and followed the blonde nurse from the room.

John was sat up in bed, pale and with black shadows under his eyes, his arm in a sling but essentially alive. As soon as the door closed, with a mock-stern "Be gentle with him," from Annie the nurse, she had rushed to him and hugged him tight.

"Whoa there, Irene. I'm not dead yet," he joked weakly, hugging her back awkwardly with his good arm. "And you aren't either, by the feel of it."

"Don't get any ideas, you!" she swiped at his good arm, before sitting up and taking a good look at him. John looked a mess.

There were deep shadows under his eyes, and he winced every time he moved his arm. She noticed his tremor was a little worse than normal.

"How are you?" she asked tentatively, looking down at her hands. John's callused, warm ones curled over hers, as she looked up and into his eyes. "You don't regret it, do you?"

The question was clearly rhetorical, as was the one John fired back at her. "You still haven't forgiven him?"

Irene pulled her hands away, standing and walking to the window. She looked out over the busy street below, but without really seeing anything. "He lied to me, John. He said we would go after Moriarty together, that we would do it _together_. I should never have trusted him," she breathed, every word tense and spoken through gritted teeth.

"Do you ask yourself why he drugged you, Irene?" John asked. "Why he did what he did."

"Because I was nothing more than a distraction, a pet to be pushed aside when I became too troublesome," she replied quickly, turning around to face John, the shadows on his attractive face stark in the dim morning light.

He shook his head. "He did it because he didn't know what else to do, Irene. He loves you."

"No. Sherlock doesn't love, he can't," Irene replied, but John's words had struck a chord in her that was refusing to die down. She felt her breathing begin to quicken, as she turned away to hide her face. "He…he just can't."

"He can and he _does_ love you. You didn't see him after you ran, when Moriarty threatened you. I've never seen him so lost, in so much pain. And you clearly care for him, otherwise you wouldn't be so upset," John explained, with just a hint of triumph in his tone. "You're both so alike. So perceptive, so intelligent but when it comes to emotions, you're both at sea. He has as much trouble at dealing with it as you do."

"No," Irene murmured, but her shake of the head was weak, when everything inside her wanted so much to believe John's words.

Memories began to play back in her mind, of every touch and word, and speaking look Sherlock had ever sent her way.

* * *

_Not noticing him, Irene stepped into him, and ended up gripping his forearms while he gripped her waist with his hands._

_He cursed under his breath. That urge was back from the recycle bin._

_"Careful, Irene. Wouldn't want our new flatmate taking a tumble," he murmured smoothly, absolutely forbidding his eyes to wander down to her full lips. He cursed his less than witty retort, but by the fire springing up in her eyes, he guessed she didn't really care either way..._

* * *

_Then the crowd surged again, so they were shoved together, crushed from breast to hip. Arms looped around his neck, Irene swore that she could feel her heart beating against her ribcage, as she slowly looked up into Sherlock's eyes._

_Burning eyes._

_She swallowed, at the intensity in his gaze, remembering her vow not to let him get her anywhere alone..._

* * *

"_You have no right to tell me what to do," she replied coldly, glaring at him. "Absolutely no right at al-ll!"_

_But her final words were lost by the lips abruptly covering her own, tongue surging deep into her mouth domineeringly, leaving her no time to argue or fight._

_She didn't want to._

_She kissed him back, urgently, rocking her hips into his. There was nothing gentle about this kiss, nothing sweet or poignant. It was sex, dirty and powerful, but it was also an argument, furious and heated._

_Sherlock shifted, one hand sliding down the curve of her thigh to her knee, his mind coming up with the excuse that their pursuers would be less likely to spot them in the shadows like this, especially as Irene's body was entirely hidden by his, and that they would be unlikely to interrupt a couple in the middle of a makeout session, as per the illusion._

_Or so he desperately tried to convince himself, as he hitched her knee up to his hip, so he was pressed against her core, drinking in her gasp through their fused mouths._

_He ground his hips into hers, crushing her against the wall, needing to feel her soft body surrendered to his, that primal urge he'd suppressed now returned full force._

_Her hands slid into his hair, ruffling it and twining with the unruly curls, as he groaned and tilted her head back, deepening the angle of the kiss_...

* * *

"_Don't pretend you weren't unaffected, Irene. If I recall correctly, you kissed back in quite a…involved way too," Sherlock was smiling now, continuing his stalk forward._

_His hot breath on her neck, being so utterly surrounded by him, made her knees feel like jelly. But she wasn't about give in..._

* * *

_"High-functioning sociopath, remember?" he replied. "What do I care what she sees...?"_

* * *

_"You are never going to kiss me again, let alone touch me..."_

* * *

_"I beg to differ, Irene," Sherlock said quietly from the floor, as she stumbled away to her room, forcing herself not to look back, afraid he would see the pain in her eyes, the tears and the yearning..._

* * *

_"I had to see you were alright," he continued awkwardly, as Irene glanced towards the door..._

* * *

_"Now, now it's too early for a fight. Let go and lie down, I'm not going anywhere," he replied, as she sighed and lay down. Sherlock turned to kick his shoes off, and then pulled the covers back to slide in with her. He twined his arms around her waist and pulled her close, so her head rested on his shoulder..._

* * *

_"Irene, we need to talk," he breathed in her ear. Withdrawing her arm, Irene turned her head away._

_"We have absolutely nothing to talk about, Sherlock. Nothing whatsoever," she replied coolly, and he could see her shields were back up..._

* * *

_"I despise your arrogance! You're the most conceited, ruthless, heartless, diabolical bast-" Irene's insult was cut off by the fact that Sherlock reached across the table, threaded his fingers into the loose hair at her nape and dragged her lips to his..._

* * *

_"You're not running away that easily, Irene Adler. Not anymore," he growled, lowering his lips to her..._

* * *

_"Enjoy throwing yourself at random men?" Sherlock retorted cuttingly, but Irene didn't even bat an eyelid..._

* * *

_"Never leave me," he growled out, against her lips as they began that now familiar giddy ride to heaven..._

* * *

_"I did not, and you know I didn't. You need to get out of here, now, before it's too late," Irene replied heatedly._

_"You're coming with me," he shot back, but she shook her head determinedly._

_"No. If I leave, he'll just come after you, and it won't stop until everyone is dead. He will kill you!" she breathed, her face softening now._

_Finding himself softening too, Sherlock reached out to her but she moved back._

_"Irene, please come home. I will protect you; I'll protect both of us. Just come back to me, and never do something as stupid as this again," he whispered, unconsciously pleading..._

* * *

_"I need you, Irene. Come home, and we'll stop Moriarty together," he breathed in her ear, and she shuddered. Closing her eyes, she nodded just once, relaxing into the safe haven of his arms. "You don't have to run anymore..."_

* * *

_As soon as Irene released John, Sherlock reached out an arm and pulled her against him, her head nestling in the hollow of his collarbone..._

* * *

_"You should be alright now. It's not deep-" he murmured, as she shook her head._

_"Sherlock."_

_"It won't need stitches," he continued like she hadn't spoken, but she caught his hands as they went to put the first aid kit aside..._

* * *

_He produced a soft leather pouch from his pocket, pressing it into her hand. She uncoiled it curiously, before pure delight lit her eyes up._

_"Of course if you don't…I mean I thought it appropriate-" Sherlock clearly didn't know how to react, so Irene cut him off by throwing her arms around his neck._

_"Shut up and…thank you," she whispered, kissing him soundly. He grinned against her lips, pulling her against him when John's yell broke them apart..._

* * *

_"I have to keep you safe, Irene," Sherlock breathed against her forehead, as she began to fail in staying awake, losing her strength..._

* * *

_"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured, hugging her to him desperately, begging her to understand but all he saw in her eyes was betrayal and deep hurt..._

* * *

_"That was for drugging me, you sonofabitch!" she croaked hoarsely, but Sherlock felt the anger and the desperation of a few minutes ago melt away into urgent desire, that she was alive and here with him, safe for now. Uncaring whether he got punched again, he grabbed her, hauled her into his arms and kissed her full on the mouth, which she hungrily, if furiously returned..._

* * *

_"To protect you," he protested huskily. "Both of you could have died, because I didn't protect you..."_

* * *

_"I'm sorry," Sherlock breathed, lips very gently caressing her skin..._

* * *

Irene's head rose, as she finally saw what her heart had been telling her from the beginning, what her trained brain and senses had all but ignored.

Her eyes rose to John's, knowing, twinkling as he smiled widely. "Told you so," he snickered smugly, just as the door to his room opened.

"Where is he?" Mycroft demanded, marching over the threshold. "Sherlock's left the hospital."

"What!" erupted from both Irene's and John's mouths, as Mycroft shook his head, as if annoyed by their concern.

"Where has he gone?" he demanded, turning to Irene who glared at him. She bent her elbow back, and punching him the jaw, as he collapsed to the floor.

"That's for not telling Sherlock I was nothing but a distraction," she snarled down at the unconscious Mycroft.

"Nice right hook," John muttered, an awed smirk on his face. He sobered, as he looked up at Irene, her face frowning in concentration. "Where's he gone?"

"He's going to run, to try and take Moriarty alone. He's gone back to Baker Street," she murmured a second later, before whirling and rushing out the door.

"Hey…?" John called, before huffing impatiently. "Why do I even bother?"

He swung his legs out of bed, and started to dress awkwardly. Ignoring the older Holmes, he had just got his jacket on when Annie the Nurse walked in.

"What in the name of…? What happened?" she demanded, eyes wide and staring at the prone form of Mycroft. Her eyes darted up as John strode purposefully for the door. "And where do you think you're going?"

"Leaving," he muttered shortly.

"You can't. Mr Watson…" Annie tried to stop him, but the determined doctor just pinned her with a fiery glare.

"That's Doctor Watson, and I'm discharging myself," he growled, before walking away with a backward glance.


	29. The Game Is On!

The Broken Tango

Chapter 29

* * *

Baker Street was unusually deserted when Irene got there. She got out a street away, slipping through the allies and side streets until she reached the fire escape on the side of their building. Her motorbike was parked out there, shining in the mid-morning sun as she stroked a hand along its fender lovingly, before she hurried up the fire escape.

Her bedroom window was open, and she squeezed through the gap.

She hurried into the living room, stopping dead when she saw Sherlock standing before the lit fire, apparently gazing into it broodingly.

"Sherlock…?" she murmured hesitantly, chest heaving from climbing up the fire escape. She could hear no movement below, so guessed that Mrs Hudson wasn't home. The consulting detective didn't turn around, but she saw his entire body stiffen. He didn't answer, so she moved forward into the room. "You're going to run, aren't you? Run and leave John and I behind?"

"It's the best way," he muttered, still not facing her.

"The hell it is," Irene snarled, "You can't do this alone. I won't let you."

"Irene," Sherlock sighed, finally turning around and facing her as she walked right up to him, so their noses brushed.

"No, hush," she breathed, placing her fingers over his mouth before he could start speaking again. His eyes met hers, and she felt herself gasp at the pain, the anguish, the sheer _turmoil_ she saw in them.

John had been right.

She abruptly focussed on the smooth lips beneath her fingertips, their softness, their austerity.

"You shouldn't be here. Moriarty is probably watching this place like a hawk," Sherlock whispered, dislodging her fingers gently.

"Neither should you," she retorted, eyes still fixed on his lips. Sherlock sighed, and tilted her head up.

"Why did you come after me?" he asked, coolly, calmly despite the storm in his piercing eyes.

"I just remembered it's been at least three days since I kissed you last," she managed to murmur, before she did exactly what she had said, and kissed him.

Hard.

Sherlock only hesitated for a second beneath her kiss, before he began to kiss back with urgency, arms like steel bands coming around her waist and drawing her to him forcefully. She scraped her hands through his hair, pulling none too gently to keep his mouth on hers as he groaned, hands leaving her waist to pull the hem of her ruined shirt from her skirt, sliding his palms underneath. Irene gasped into his mouth, releasing his hair to tug impatiently at his jacket, forcing him to release her for a moment to shrug it away, before reclaiming her mouth.

Irene's hands returned to his hair, to cling and to caress as Sherlock's mouth dropped to her neck, tongue and teeth desperately seeking out where her pulse throbbed erratically.

Words were entirely superfluous as hands stroked and glided and clawed desperately at clothing. Sherlock needed her, and she needed him.

Finally free of all restrictions, Irene basked in the heat of the flames less than a foot from where they stood, and the even more scalding fire of Sherlock's skin as it touched her own. Touched her, surrounded her entirely.

Unfazed by the danger, by the possibility of someone coming on them while they were vulnerable, Irene pulled Sherlock down with her to the rug, needing his body to completely surround hers.

She needed him inside her, now, with no barriers, no more shields to hide behind.

His body weighed heavily on hers, crushing her into the floor, the rough material abrading the sensitive skin of her back, but she didn't try to move away. She didn't want to, she just wanted him with her, now.

Nails digging into the flesh of his back, holding him to her desperately, their eyes locked, their chests rising and falling in syncopated gasps.

No barriers, no shields.

"I thought I would lose you," Sherlock growled out, looking unbelievably young and vulnerable with his dark hair curling over his eyes. Irene reached up to brush a stray lock away, Sherlock's lips pressing ardently into the palm of her hand, making her shiver.

"You haven't. I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere," she whispered, caressing his face lovingly. Their bodies were covered in a thin sheen of sweat, their lips just about brushing as Sherlock's body undulated gently into hers, making her gasp against his mouth. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back against the floor, his lips travelling the graceful arch of her neck. "Sherlock, please…"

He exhaled brokenly against her collarbone, before thrusting into her again, rougher and faster, an animalistic groan falling from his lips. Irene cried out, scoring her nails down his back, as their lips met again in a fiery dance, surrounded by heat, their bodies fused together, as one.

Unbreakable.

* * *

"You're wrong, you know," Sherlock husky voice in her ear pulled Irene out of the sated doze she'd relaxed into, safe in his arms. They lay together, still entwined, her back to his torso, facing away from the fire, his leg bent over hers. Their clothes lay scattered around them, Sherlock's jacket partially covering Irene's naked body.

"About what?" Irene murmured, turning her head so she could see his face over the rise of her shoulder. His fingers traced deft patterns on her skin, comforting rather than arousing.

"It hasn't been three days since you kissed me last. You kissed me last night," he murmured, as Irene rolled her eyes.

"We're lying, naked, on the floor of our flat, with a psychopath after us, and you're being pedantic?" she asked incredulously, at which he just smiled and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "I can see you're back to your old self."

"And I'm obviously forgiven, seeing as we're lying on the floor of our flat, naked," Sherlock replied, making both of them chuckle. He looked down at her, into her eyes, overflowing with emotion, and stroked his fingers up the line of her jaw. "Irene…"

Her fingers came up to cover his lips, hushing him before he could speak. "I know," she whispered. "But don't say it yet. Save it until there's no longer a sword hanging over our heads."

"Do you…?" he began to ask, again looking more vulnerable than she had ever seen him, and she shivered.

"Yes. I do," she replied simply, a gentle smile growing on her lips as she reached up and kissed him, sliding a hand into the curls at his nape to hold him to her. He groaned, and the arm around her waist tightened possessively. When their lips parted, Irene laid her head back on his supporting arm, gazing up at him with a determined glint in her eye. "Which also means there is no way in hell I'm letting you run off after Moriarty alone."

Sherlock opened his lips to reply, but he was cut off by a very familiar voice coming through the door.

"Correction: no way in hell _we're_ letting you run off after Moria-?" John stopped dead at the sight of Irene and Sherlock lying in each other's arms, Sherlock's suit jacket the only thing protecting her modesty, and Irene's body the only thing protecting Sherlock's.

Irene's brow rose, with just a hint of amusement. "You took your time."

"Yeah, well, I kinda thought that…" John trailed off, clearing his throat. Sherlock chuckled, neither he nor Irene moving to cover themselves up. "You would want some time…alone."

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" Sherlock asked, looking up at his friend as he supported himself on one elbow. Irene snickered.

"I discharged myself," John, still beetroot red, moved over to one of the armchairs and collapsed into it, very carefully keeping his eyes on Sherlock and Irene's faces. There weren't exactly many other places he could look safely. "We should probably get moving. Mrs Hudson could be back at any moment and Mycroft isn't going to stay knocked out forever."

"Knocked out…? What happened?" Sherlock asked, frowning as Irene reached for his shirt and tossed it to him. Irene sent a devilish smirk his way, as she shrugged into Sherlock's suit jacket, holding the lapels together to cover her.

"Oh, I punched him in the face for being an ass," she replied nonchalantly over her shoulder, before disappearing into her bedroom to change. John averted his eyes, shaking his head at his two sociopaths for companions, as Sherlock stood and dressed quickly.

"If it was Irene, I almost feel sorry for Mycroft. Almost," he muttered with a sly smile at John.

"That's twice in less than 24 hours that he's been decked," John chuckled. "Poor Mycroft."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I thought you were unconscious."

"Nope. Nice right hook by the way, I didn't know you had it in you," he grinned, as Irene re-emerged from her bedroom, dressed in sensible jeans, boots and a shirt, slinging a blazer over the top.

"So what now?" she asked, heading straight for her lover, whose arm reached out to twine her to his side. John smiled, sending a knowing glance Irene's way, who just glared at him pointedly.

"We don't know if Moriarty's alive or dead. With him, I think it a fair assumption to presume he survived the explosion, and will no doubt have assumed the same of us, or will know by now. We need to go into hiding, make everyone believe we're dead. No one can be told, but that we can leave to Mycroft to arrange. We need to start playing Moriarty at his own game, lead him into a trap of our making while letting him believe he's actually trapping us," Sherlock explained. John nodded.

"If Moriarty believes us alive, why did you take the risk of coming back here?" Irene asked, frowningly. Sherlock glanced towards the mantelpiece, with a mock-sad expression on his face.

"I missed my skull," he replied, making his two colleagues grin. The levity passed, as they all looked at each other. "You could die. Moriarty won't hesitate to try to use you against me. You're both giving up your lives for this." Sherlock continued, warningly. Irene rolled her eyes, as John looked sad for a moment.

"I will miss Sarah, and even Harry but…we're all involved now. Even if you left us behind, Moriarty could still try to get to you through us, and it's not like he'll just leave Irene alone. Right now, the safest place for you and us is to stick together," John slowly remarked, the cool calculation of the soldier beginning to shine in his eyes, replacing his usual affable warmth. Sherlock didn't need to glance at Irene to know her response.

"I'm coming with you, anywhere you go, I'm coming. John's right, James won't just leave me alone to follow you. My life is at your side, Sherlock," she breathed softly, smiling at her two friends warmly. Sherlock's arm tightened around her waist, before a shark like grin spread over his austere lips.

"Then the game is on!"

* * *

Looking up at his two flatmates, the sociopath detective and the dangerous beauty, John couldn't help but feel hopeful. Yes, Moriarty possessed more resources than they, was Sherlock's intellectual equal and possibly even more devious but somehow John doubted he would win their game.

No, this time they would play the game their way, and they would win.

Because Sherlock had a greater cause to fight for now than just avoiding boredom. It was standing in the circle of his arm, an equally determined and dangerous light in her eyes.

Sherlock and Irene were like two sides of a coin, both brilliant, both flawed, but ultimately complementing each other, fitting together like two pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. And John basked in the knowledge that he too was a part of that puzzle.

The puzzle, the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes.

The game was on, indeed.

What felt like the end of the story was really only the beginning of another, one which would be dark and full of danger and death, and pain and loss before this was over.

John smiled.

_And I thought my life was boring. I can't say nothing happens to me anymore…_

He wouldn't have it any other way.

_**The end…or is it just the beginning?**_

* * *

**And that's the end of 'The Broken Tango'. I hope you all enjoyed it, and I loved writing it. Thank you for all the reviews, and perhaps there'll be a sequel, although that probably won't be until the next series in 2011. I won't be writing anymore for Sherlock just yet, since I have a veritable mountain of WIPs that need finishing, before I start anything new. :)**


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